Calling All Angels
by xoxoemily
Summary: Santana and Puck reunite in New York City after years apart. But she's a famous supermodel now, and he's still a nobody. You know its going to be tumultuous, sexy, and dramatic- just like them.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! So here's another full-length story to ring in the New Year! I've had this idea for a really long time now, and I'm actually going to write this. After an unfortunate incident that kind of got me a little down, I'm back and more motivated than ever. I've been putting even more thought into my writing, being very cautious in order present the best work possible. I think this is going to be the best work I've ever written. Which means, I'm going to take a lot longer writing it, so bear with me guys. I promise I have some really good ideas.**

Santana Lopez had finally made it. She finally had the job and recognition she'd been working towards since she was seventeen. She was standing in a posh loft at a party, wearing a $2000 gown, drinking champagne she wouldn't have been able to even pronounce ten years ago, and mingling with business tycoons who were only there to celebrate her.

"Congratulations, Santana. You deserve it, girl," her coworker hugged her, the golden chains she was wearing with her cocktail dress digging into Santana's bare décolletage.

"Thanks, Sasha," Santana replied and gave an obligatory smile. She knew Sasha wanted the promotion herself, but whatever. Her boss was clinking his glass anyways, a good excuse for Santana to not to call Sasha out for being a jealous fake.

"May I have your attention please?" he started, "Thank you. On behalf of everyone at the Victoria's Secret HQ, I thank you for coming tonight to celebrate with us the launch of our new Invincible bra. This revolutionary innovation will be remembered in fashion history, just like Victoria's Secret. And of course, with each new bra comes a new star. But you all know this model. Allow me to proudly present the new face of the Invincible campaign, America's favorite Angel, the beloved Miss Santana Madison! Santana?"

Santana walked up to the podium, flashed the audience a megawatt smile, kissed Daniel on both cheeks, and raised her own champagne flute.

"Thank you so much, Daniel. It's an honor to be the new face of the Invincible campaign. It's an honor to represent such a wonderful company because there is no harder working company out there other than Victoria's Secret. Having been with them for 5 years now, I can honestly say this is the most gratifying experience in my entire modeling career. I am so very excited to be able to share the magnificence and luxury of the Invincible bra with America. So cheers to Daniel and everyone who's worked so hard," she recited, ignoring just how fake and forced her words were. She rose her glass, took a sip, and waited for the applause. When she heard it, she smiled, walked back down and continued to work the room like the star that she was.

* * *

"_We're going to get the fuck out of this cow town one day San, the second we can. You and me," a seventeen-year-old Noah Puckerman said hazily, taking another drag on his Clovis cigarette. His arm was draped lazily behind his head and the scantily-clad girl beside him wriggled a bit, blocking out the nippy backyard air by cocooning herself in the sleeping bag they were sharing._

"_You know it, Puckerman," Santana Lopez remarked as she pulled her nimble body closer to his, close enough so that his signature scent would infuse into her wild mane of black hair. A little phenomenon she'd loved ever since she discovered it after a crazy night freshman year when she'd woken up smelling like a mélange of dip, sweat, and well, pure boy. He rolled over onto his forearms, the ridges between the floor panels of his deck engraving marks into his skin through the sleeping bag._

"_What'll we do?" he mumbled. It was as deep as their conversations ever went. They were in their senior year, the home stretch. Ms. Pillsbury-Howell kept going on about the future, and all the opportunities that would arise, as if their generation had the chance to do something amazing. Yeah, right. They were both smart enough to know that the Quinn Fabrays and Finn Hudsons of WMHS were never going to cure cancer or any shit like that. _

"_Who cares as long as we're out of here?" she scoffed. He chuckled to humor her. If there was one thing about the lovers, it was that they had a lot in common. Maybe it's why they always came crawling back to one another after shit went down. Sure there was the obvious, like the fact that they both enjoyed sex, a lot (especially with each other). But they also shied away from commitment and stability. Two things that a lifetime in Lima would confine them to. They would have to leave; neither of them could survive here for another 50 years or however long before they'd decide to kill themselves._

"_Good point," he said before whispering more promises into her ear._

* * *

The next morning, Santana showed up to the first photoshoot for the new campaign. So posing in underwear and high heels for ten hours a day isn't an ideal job, but her boobs paid the bills. When she saw the rest of the girls come in, she groaned at the sight of Coral Truax, her least favorite fellow Angel. Coral was rude to the assistants, demanded everything she wore to be coral, and always threw a fit whenever she didn't get what she wanted. But she photographed like a pin-up girl, so she was never going to be dropped from the company. Darn. At least Sasha was here. She was semi-tolerable. Santana mentally chided herself for having a career that stuck her in the company of girls for most of her day. She never did well with other girls anyways, but it's not like she _chose_ her profession.

"Hey Santana. Congrats on the promotion. Whose dick did you suck to get it?" Coral hissed.

"Don't be stupid Coral. Not all of us have to," she remarked and turned around so that the make-up artist could finish concealing the dove-shaped birthmark on her shoulder blade. Santana almost didn't notice the young girl in the corner staring at her, someone she'd never seen before. She wore her light blond hair (Santana could tell it was natural) in two braids and was carrying a fake Gucci bag.

"Uhm, what are you staring at?" Santana snapped. The girl jumped and rushed over, eyes frantic.

"I'm sorry. You're just so beautiful. Oh my gosh, I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe I'm working with Santana Madison. You're just my idol," she rambled. Santana smiled at the girl, finding her endearing in that young, crazed fan kind of way.

"Working? Who are you?" Coral shrieked from across the room. Before the poor girl could respond, Daniel strode in.

"Girls, play nice. This is Katie Hershlag. She's going to be the fourth girl in the ads. Where are you from again, Katie?" Daniel asked.

"Alabama," she chirped, her voice reveal a slight lilt. Daniel pulled up out BlackBerry and punched in some keys.

"Right, right. Okay well Katie, from now on, you will be referred to as Katya. You could pass as Russian, you'll need to get rid of that accent though…" he rambled without looking up. Katie looked overwhelmed. Santana shot her a sympathetic glance. Having worked with Daniel for a number of years, she understood his thinking. She understood this industry. Modeling was all about selling an image, and in this particular line of work, selling a fantasy. Santana was going to be the exotic, racially-ambiguous star; Coral the sexy, All-American girl next door; Sasha the sassy voluptuous bombshell; and now, Katie or _Katya_, was to be the mysterious foreign beauty. They would each take on their individual roles and do whatever it took to sell the product, appealing to every kind of woman in America. Daniel walked out, tapping away on his phone.

Katie gulped, and all three pairs of eyes looked at her.

"Don't look so scared, honey. It's not a flattering look," Coral quipped.

"It's just, why do I have to change everything about myself? How come I can't be Katie from Maybelle, Alabama?" she asked.

"What's the population in Maybelle?"

"5000"

"That's why. Nobody's going to want to be you, and therefore want to buy the underwear you're wearing, if you're just going to be a small town girl from the middle of nowhere. If you want to be boring and awkward Katie Hershlag, go ahead, but don't be surprised if you're off the set tomorrow," Coral said.

"Oh," Katie quietly said.

"Don't worry, you get used to it. We all had to go through it. I'm from Lima, Ohio, and that place was the biggest shithole you'd ever seen. When I got here, I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. They let me keep my name at least, well my first name," Santana offered. She didn't know why she was telling this stranger so much about her. Even though she'd been on the cover of practically every tabloid, few people knew anything about her. She'd chosen to remain an enigma in the public eye. But Santana saw a little bit of her old self in this Katie Hershlag, and it was nice to be reminded a little bit of home. She'd changed her name too, from Lopez to Madison. Her first agent told her that Lopez was drab and reminded people of , that she needed to be her own person. Santana had found it ironic that in order to make a name for herself, to have her own persona, she needed to change her name. Her agent promised her that when she was a star, she could just drop her last name. It wouldn't even matter by then; she would just be a one-name wonder, like Gisele or Tyra. So Santana chose Madison, the street where the rich and famous lived it up.

_

* * *

Santana stepped off the train and looked around. It was her first time out of Lima, Ohio and she was in New York, of all fucking places. She was standing in Grand Central Station, in the middle of the Big Apple, with an actual plan. Like a real one, not the lame one she'd made last summer in the middle of the night with Puck. She pulled her suitcase forward and walked out to find the person from the agency she'd been promised._

"_Santana Lopez?" a voice yelled from behind her. Santana turned around, seeing the matronly woman who'd found her._

"_Yeah, that's me," she replied._

"_Good, come with me. The agency sent me," the woman said, looking Santana up and down, occasionally clucking her tongue. Santana squirmed. She was used to attention, but not from some old lady who was judging her every feature in excruciating detail. Santana knew she was hot, but come on. The whole examination thing was unnecessary._

"_Okay, where are we going?" Santana asked._

"_To get you your makeover," the woman replied, walking briskly ahead. Santana had to speedwalk to keep up._

"_Makeover?" This wasn't part of the plan. The agent from Cincinnati told her there was a modeling job perfect for Santana in New York. If she wanted it, she needed to get out there right away and get it, because well, modeling is cutthroat._

"_Well honey, you didn't expect to just plop right in and get modeling right?" Santana shook her head, pretending her previous thoughts had never existed. She would have to fake it until she made it. "We'll need to get your hair layered and then you need some hair removal laser therapy…you're eighteen right?" _

_Santana nodded and complied. She knew she was lucky just to be here, lucky just to have a modeling job. For every Naomi Campbell, there had been 10,000 girls who didn't make it. She wasn't going to become one of the 10,000. Even if it was for only three months. Maybe if she did a good job, she could just stay here forever. Whatever it took to not end up in Lima forever. She'd been blessed with this opportunity, and she wasn't going to fuck it up. _

_Still, lying on the cold surgical table that day, body unrecognizable and numb with pain from electrolysis, she wondered just who she had become, because she sure as hell didn't recognize herself._

* * *

"Really?" Katie asked.

"Really," Santana affirmed, softening her gaze.

"Why'd you leave Lima?"

"Because I looked around, and didn't see one person whose life I wanted. I got out of there the second I could, and never looked back"

**My stories are nothing without your feedback. So please, review. Tell me what you think, I love hearing your thoughts. And don't hesitate to tell me what you hated and what you think I should do better.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi bbs! Let me start off by saying I am just overwhelmed with the positive response from this story, and I am so grateful. 9 reviews on the last chapter! Crazyyyy! I didnt even get that many when I wrote Camp Rock fanfiction, and let me tell you, those JoBros sure have a lot of crazed, reviewing fans. Anyone wanna make it 10? ;)**

**So, heres the second chapter. I dont usually post on weekdays, but I'll make an exception. And for those who want to know all about their separation and reunification, be patient darlings. It'll all make sense eventuallllly. **

**To Melissa: Thanks for your review! And Santana is intended to be exotic, but in a way that is like an American, mixedrace beauty. Katya is meant to be the foreign one with the crazy last name. I kept Santana's last name simple, because a lot of celebrities have changed their formerly "convoluted" and hard-to-pronounce names to something that is easily said, or rather easily remembered. Plus, Madison has sentimental meaning for her. Thanks for your input, hope that cleared things up.  
**

Noah Puckerman ate his "dinner" slowly, bite by bite. He wasn't savoring it though. He'd done this long enough to know that if you ate the processed mush they passed off as food too fast, you'd be tossing and turning all night long with a gnawing pain in your belly. And life sucked enough already.

The guys in the corner of the station were huddled together, occasionally whooping and well, being guys. Puck stood up, dumped his tray, and moved over there to see what all the commotion was.

"What's going on over here, fellas? Having another poker tournament? Cause I got a couple of Clovis cigarettes to offer if you boys have room for one more," Puck said suavely. Having been in the service for six years, it was weird that he hadn't made very many friends. Joining the military was usually accompanied by a feeling of camaraderie among troops, but Puck was never one for "bromances." Still, when you're stuck in the middle of the desert bored out of your mind, friends are good. Especially when you're cut off from the rest of the world. He hadn't touched a computer for months. And on the rare occasions that he had the chance to surf the internet, it was only to write emails to his mom and sister. Not that he was complaining, he'd signed up for this: the most rigorous and secluded division of the U.S. armed forces.

"Nah. Tucker got one of them Victoria's Secret catalogues from one of the lieutenants. Not as good as a Playboy and a couple months old, but pretty damn close," commented one of the new recruits, O'Sullivan.

"Let me see," Puck said, grabbing the dog-eared magazine. It had been a while since he'd gotten some action, not that he really wanted to here anyways. He'd tried to get with some of his female cohorts, but it was hard to get hot and heavy with some chick who looked just like you except with long hair in a rank barrack in the middle of nowhere. He'd expected the usual blonde skanks, the ones with double-Ds and collagen pumped lips. Not that that was terrible or anything, but to be honest, he'd seen it all by now and very little impressed him anymore. He flipped mindlessly through the pages, the guys behind him hanging on to each glossy image. He stopped at the centerfold, and did a double take. The alluring brown eyes that had stared back at him seemed familiar…like he'd seen them somewhere before…like he'd gazed into them before. Oh shit. Oh shit.

"Puckerman, you okay?" asked O'Sullivan. Puck was sure he looked like a madman, eyes scanning the page hysterically, looking for a name. Yup. It was her. Santana. Santana Madison. She must have changed her name. He could still recognize her, although some things were a bit different from what he remembered. Her lips seemed a little poutier, her breasts a little perkier, her legs a little longer. Everything was just a little…off.

_

* * *

Now, an exclusive interview with our longtime Victoria's Secret model Santana Madison, who celebrates her fifth year as an Angel this winter. Santana dishes about love, success, and more._

_Victoria's Secret: Of course, we need to start with the burning question. Do you have a special someone in your life? A boyfriend maybe?_

_Santana Madison: (laughs) Everyone wants to know that! No, nobody serious, but I'm always looking._

_VS: How do you stay so thin? Share your diet tips!_

_SM: Well, since I work in this industry, it's really important to me to stay fit. I actually don't diet, but I do have this super secret shake I drink religiously. My high school cheerleading coach actually introduced it to me. I would tell you what's in it, but I'm sure she has a copyright on it or something._

_VS: Nice to know. So you've walked in high fashion shows in Paris, Milan, but you also work with us in our runway shows and our print ads. Which do you like better?_

_SM: It's hard to say. Obviously, haute couture is glamorous and beautiful, but it's so stressful and draining. Working at Victoria's Secret is great because it's so fun! And the girls are great too._

_VS: A lot of readers want to know what it feels like to wear the wings down the runway._

_SM: Oh, that's a really good question. No, as fun as they are, they're actually really heavy. Having to walk down the runway with them strapped onto your back is difficult, but worth it cause they look hot! Oh my god, oh my- (starts hysterically laughing)_

_VS: What?_

_SM: Oh, nothing. Sorry. I just remembered this music video I was in in high school. It was a remake of that terrible song, Run Joey Run. And me and my best friend, we wore these hugemongous angel wings, like the Victoria's Secret ones but ten times less exciting. Oh man, that was an exciting day._

_VS: Oh cool! You'll be walking in our annual live fashion show December 10__th__, broadcasted on CBS. Now our last question, from show sponsor Lotto. Do you have a lucky number?_

_SM: Uhm…yeah, I'd say I do. It's 20. That number, uhm, it reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone who was really important to me. Yeah. 20._

_VS: Well thank you for taking the time to talk to us Santana. We'll see you next in the print ads for the Invincible campaign. And for the readers out there, don't forget to tune in December 10__th__!_

_SM: It was a pleasure. And yes, watch the show!_

* * *

"I know that girl! Fuck, she finally made it. The crazy bitch finally made it," he said, his voice hinting disbelief. Sure, he'd always known she had the potential to do it, but fuck, this was real. The last he'd seen _of_ her was in the background of a jeans ad in a magazine at the recruiting office lobby four years ago when he signed up for this gig. The last time he actually saw her? That's a different story. Now she was a Victoria's Secret Angel. She wasn't on billboards for local diners anymore in middle America anymore. She'd gone off and become a national icon while he went away to protect their country.

_

* * *

They stood in the parking lot at school, dripping wet from the pouring rain. It was well after hours, and they'd just finished their locker room tryst after their respective Cheerios and football practices. He pushed her into a puddle and she shoved him, giggling. Nobody else was around to witness the two teenagers in their playful, uncharacteristic state. He pinned her against his truck and planted a kiss on her. A cough interrupted their impromptu makeout session. They broke apart and noticed the woman standing in front of them. She was impeccably dressed and hiding under a Burberry umbrella. Santana hoped she hadn't been here watching them the whole time, because that would have been really creepy._

"_Yeah?" asked Puck. Sure, the lady was totally hot in that sophisticated way and on any other occasion he would have asked for her number, but right now he had Santana and that was more than enough._

"_Actually, I'd like to speak to your girlfriend," the lady said. Santana ducked out of Puck's arms and raised an eyebrow. "I'm Stacy Longchamp, and I'm a modeling scout from New York. I've been in town for a couple of days, looking for some fresh talent. I saw you at your cheerleading practice and I think you're just what I've been looking for."_

"_Seriously?" Puck asked incredulously._

"_If I wasn't serious, I wouldn't have waited this long for you to finish. So what do you say? I could represent you and with your look, I'll find you a job in no time. Maybe you'll even be the next Iman. Of course, we could stick to local modeling if you wanna go that route," she added with a giggle. Santana remained silent; Puck nudged her._

"_Uhm, I'll think about it," Santana hastily said, meaning no._

"_Sure, of course. Here's my card. Call me if you decide you want to be a model," Stacy said, before walking away towards her car, heels clicking against the wet asphalt._

_A couple days later, he was still thinking about what the talent agent said. She, however, had completely disregarded the thought. She had ditched the business card in the glove department of his truck, where it stayed. They were sitting in the back of choir room, ignoring whatever Mr. Schue had to say about seminal Broadway classics._

"_Guess what I found when I was cleaning out of my truck this morning," he said. _

"_What?" she replied, feigning interest. She was filing her nails, of course._

"_That talent agent's card," he said, fishing it out of his jeans pocket. The heavily gold embossed card was crumpled and looked like it had gone through a couple of wind tunnels._

"_So?" She continues to file her nails, her pinky finger a flawless square shape now. He shrugged_

"_I don't know, don't you wanna like call her at least? You'd be good at it I bet, you love attention. Plus you'd look smoking hot," he suggested. He figured she'd be more excited about the whole thing. She could be a fucking model. She could have a chance at getting out of this shithole._

_She scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. When she said model, she meant being a K-Mart print ad wearing reindeer sweaters for the holidays, not strutting down some runway in Paris. Please, why would she come to here of all places to look for a real model, if she was legit?" Of course, she was being her usual cynical and skeptical self about everything._

"_Wanna know what I think?" _

"_Not really, but what?" _

"_I think you're scared."_

_She let out an artificially shrill laugh, one that caused Rachel Berry to turn around and glare at her. Whatever._

"_What would I be scared of? Being stabbed to death by a jealous stage mom with a tacky stiletto at the aforementioned K-Mart shoot?" She refused to meet his daunting gaze and moved the nail file into her other hand._

"_No. I think you're scared that you might actually have a chance at getting the hell out of here, and I think you're scared you're going to go and fuck it up. And it's okay San, because I'm not going to let you."_

_Silence. She raked her sharpened nails up and down his arm, her charm bracelet jingling against her wrist. She didn't know why he cared so much. It wasn't like he was the one who was scouted for a modeling job. Maybe the real question was why he cared so much about her. They weren't even dating. They were…undefined._

"_Fine. So I am. There are other ways to have a real life; I don't need to be a model. What are you going to do about it?" He knew her confession was sincere, and the fact that she had admitted her fears to him was a testament to how mature their relationship was, whatever it was. Proof there was a deeper side that no one expected from the two of them._

"_I'm going to make sure you call that agent, make sure you set up an appointment, and make sure you become a model, even if I have to tie you up. Because this is legit, Santana. This could be it. You're gonna kick ass," he said genuinely. Fuck their little plan, fuck the suburban housewife ideal. _

"_I hate you," she snipped, and he knew immediately that she'd given in. _

"_Hate you too." But the truth was that he didn't hate her. In fact, he loved her. And the only thing worse than a boy who hated you was a boy who loved you._

_That night at his kitchen table, she called Stacy Longchamp. A month later, she was indeed shooting a K-Mart ad, wearing a dowdy outfit no less, but it was okay because she wasn't always going to be. She was on her way. And no one was more proud than Puck._

* * *

"Ha. What did a supermodel like Santana Madison want to do with someone like you?" teased O'Sullivan, "Are you sure it's her you knew?"

"Very funny, O'Sullivan. And yeah, I'm sure it's her. We went to high school together. Look, her lucky number is my jersey number…" Wow. He'd never forgotten Santana, despite the way things turned out. But to hear that she still remembered him, especially now that she was a celebrity and he was still a nobody, it felt good. It felt good that he meant something to her. It felt like he'd actually done something in his pathetic little life.

"Did you screw her? She's smokin', man," asked O'Sullivan. Although O'Sullivan was just stating the obvious (she _was_ smokin'), Puck found himself getting a bit agitated. He'd always been defensive of the relationship he and Santana had, whatever it was.

"Yeah, I wonder if those tits are real. They look too perfect. Actually, who cares they aren't. I'd fuck her anyway…" chimed in Tucker.

"Hey, watch it. Don't push me, Tucker," grunted Puck.

"What? So you did do her? Was the sex good?" taunted Tucker. Okay, that was it. Puck grabbed Tucker by the shoulders and pushed him against the metal wall, the catalogue between them slipping to the ground. Puck was the first to throw a punch, his hand coming in contact with Tucker's nose. A loud crack was heard, and blood gushed out. Tucker pulled back and jabbed Puck in the throat. But before their scuffle could continue (and both of them had it in them), the commanding officer had pulled the two of them apart with the help of the other cadets.

"What the hell, man? What was that for?" yelled Tucker.

To be honest, he didn't even know. All he knew was that he definitely wasn't sorry. He picked up the catalogue, ripped out the piece about Santana, and walked out.

**So Puck is in the army! Bet y'all didnt see that one coming! Aho! Like it? Hate it? Let me know what you think. And for all of you silent readers, drop a review and say Hi! Reviews make me REALLY happy and motivate me to post...Just sayin' ;)  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three! Sorry for the delay, I've been crazy busy. Thanks for the great reviews. There were fewer for Chapter 2 than in Chapter 1, but the reviews were better quality. :) I love it when you guys tell me specifically what you like or dislike, hint hint.**

He'd been in this situation before. Realizing he had no grip at all on either reality or his own life, that is.

"Man, Puckerman. You've put me in a tough position," his commanding officer, Sergeant Bryce said. Puck had great respect for a man like Bryce. He had character, strength, authority- all things Puck aspired to have.

"I know, Sir. I know," Puck affirmed. It was nobody else's fault other than his. It's not like he was forced to beat the shit out of O'Malley. Something had came over him, and he'd felt the need to punch O'Malley's face in, that was all.

"I can't just sit around and let my men be assaulted under my watch, by their own comrades no less. So you can see that I'm at a loss for what to do with you," Bryce continued. Puck nodded. Puck understood discipline. In fact, he understood it real well. He'd spend his entire life in and out of trouble- first the timeout corners, then the principal's office, then juvie. The way he saw it, you do some stupid, you get punished. It was the only way the universe could work without collapsing. It explained why his deadbeat dad died alone in a bar brawl a couple years ago. It explained why he'd gotten a girl pregnant in high school after he cheated on his girlfriend with her. It made so much sense that it was almost a science.

"No, I understand Sir. You do what you need to do" Puck was certain everything would work out eventually for him. He'd stopped caring about being proactive in his life choices and decided to let God "do his thing" a few years back when he saw an innocent little girl die from a AK-47 held in American hands.

"You know, it's not like you to burst out like that. But you were crazy back there. What the fuck got into you?"

"I don't know Sir. I really don't"

"Well neither do I, and that scares the shit outta me. If you can just snap like that for no reason, it makes me wonder if you can keep your cool when we go into the field in a couple of days. And with the operations we need to pull off, I can't risk it. Which is why you're being discharged from the forces today as of 1800 hours, honorably of course. Uncle Sam will never forget what you have sacrificed for this country, son. Good luck, Noah," Bryce finished. Bryce got up and headed towards the door.

Puck was dumbfounded. He hadn't expected such a harsh punishment. But this was the third time in his life that a man he had looked up let him down. The first being his father and the myriad of disappointments that followed of course. The second, after Mr. Schue let Santana give up and walk out that day senior year. And now, the third, at the ripe old age of 25.

He'd devoted the last years of his life to the military, working day and night. He had no hobbies anymore, no interests at all, no skills other than an expert aim and a newfound knowledge of military codes.

"Where am I going to go?"

* * *

"_You need a future, Noah. I won't let no son of mine throw away his life because of some girl. You've already done enough," his mother said, and Puck immediately felt a little bit of guilt for all the grief he'd caused his ma over the last four years. Parenting a juvenile delinquent wasn't easy, and it wasn't a job for everyone. But somehow, Allison Puckerman had pulled it off. Kind of._

"_I don't know what chick you're talking about, and I'm not doing throwing away my life," he said without looking up from his video game._

_Allison sighed. Ever since his son had met his match in Santana Lopez four years ago, her stress levels had blown through the roof. Allison was only 40, but her graying hair and emerging wrinkles aged her a good fifteen years. _

"_Yes you are. You haven't done anything this week. Anything. You act like a slob around the house, play video games all day. You need to take initiative, responsibility. You're going to graduate in a couple of month, or at least your classmates will. You need to pull up your grades Noah, or else you're never going to get the hell out of here." It wasn't a truth she liked admitting, but Allison Puckerman had a terrible life. She worked 80 hour workweeks to get food on the table; she had no husband; and her only solace was her two beautiful children. But her son didn't have that joy, and she wasn't sure if he ever would._

"_But if I leave, who's going to take care of you and Sarah?" he asked, looking up. It was a dilemma he had been facing for the last couple of months. He couldn't just abandon his family like Santana had abandoned hers, like his father abandoned his. He was the man of the house; he had an obligation. _

"_Oh, baby. You don't need to worry about that. We'll manage. Lima, Ohio is no place for a boy as smart as you to stay in. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Now I know you're hurting, but you have to try. Try for me; try for Sarah. Hell, try for her if it gets you off the couch. She's gone, Noah, but you're still here. She's going to have this amazing life, and you need to too," she griped. He knew who his ma was referring to. But fuck it if she thought that he was going to try for a future because of Santana. Fuck Santana. She was the one who let him down, and now he was going to go to college because of her? No way. He wasn't going to allow her that privilege. He was going to try because he could. He was going to try because he was too good for this place. It had nothing to do with Santana Lopez. Nothing at all. Well, maybe a little._

"_Okay, ma." And that was that. _

_But who were they kidding. He ended up with a 1.8 GPA, barely passing. He had nothing going for him. Rachel was going to tour the world singing, Quinn was going to Wellesley, Kurt to RISD, even Finn had landed a scholarship to UCLA. _

"_I'm sorry ma, I'm sorry I let you down," he whispered the night of graduation. He was no better than his deadbeat father._

"_It's okay, we'll figure something out," Allison said. After the year of betrayal, abandonment, and disappointment her son had experience this year, it was all that she could say. Mother knew best._

"_No it's not. Where am I going to go?" he asked._

"_I don't know, baby. I don't know." There was no point in lying to her son. He was a man now. She just didn't know. _

_But he did. There was one thing he was good at, and that was fighting. Noah Puckerman was a warrior. He was going to fight, and prove everybody wrong. Make his ma proud. _

_So naturally, he joined the military._

* * *

He hadn't realized he had said that out loud. Bryce turned around and gave him a look of sympathy, like he was some lost boy left on the freeway or something like that.

"You gotta place to go, son?" Bryce asked.

Puck couldn't go home. There was nothing left for him there. His sister was gone to London to backpack all throughout Europe, and he surely couldn't face his ma. What would she say if she found out he'd been kicked out of the military for fighting, the one thing you were supposed to do in the armed forces?

"Yeah, yeah. I know a place," he said distractedly. He took his hand and brought it up to his shirt pocket, and pulled out the creased ad depicting the only girl he'd ever loved.

The next day, he packed his few belongings, said goodbye to his few buddies, and got on the next direct flight to New York City. He had a couple thousand dollars to his name, but his ambitions were bigger.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He arrived in the Big Apple in the middle of the night. Puck was immediately drawn by the busy, energetic vibe he felt from the city. It was the city that never slept, after all. He hailed a cab out of JFK, and as the cabbie through Times Square, he felt a surreal feeling overwhelm him. He felt a little intimidated. It was like everybody in this city was doing something. No one loitered, no one was bored. There was always something to do. It was perfect for a military boy who had done nothing for the last five years of his life.

"So you new in town or what?" asked the cabbie, who was fiddling with the radio dials.

"Yeah. Just got discharged from the service. Trying to get back to civilization, you know?" Normally, he wouldn't have made small talk to people like cab drivers, but he'd been without new company for the last couple of years. And anybody who would listen was as close enough to a companion as he would get.

"Well, you sure have come to the right place for that. You from here originally?"

"Nah, Ohio"

"Oh I see. Why'd you come to New York? You got family here?"

"Something like that" He left it at that, and the cabbie seemed satisfied with the answer, because he didn't press for details.

Suddenly a familiar tune blasted throughout the cab, the quality of the sound revealing the age of the taxi. He found himself singing along.

"There's nothing you can't do, now you're in New York/These streets will make you feel brand new/Big lights will inspire you, let's hear it for New York/New York, New York"

"Hmm, look at that. What a perfect song for you. You a musician too?

"Used to be"

_

* * *

They'd worked so hard to get there. After falling short last year, it was almost a dream. At him, they were a couple of bum Glee Clubbers. But here on this stage? They were performers. They were going to sing their hearts out, knowing very well that this could be their last chance to all be together, sharing a passion. A passion that was more important to some more than others._

_Man, they were in fucking New York City. Getting ready to sing on a stage for thousands of people. With the best glee clubs in the whole nation. That's a lot of glee clubs.  
_

_Still, with the stage lights warm on his back, he still felt like something was wrong, like something was missing. More like someone was missing. Quite possibly the most important member of the glee club, most important to him at least. The unsettling feeling he had must have been apparent in his expression because he overheard Kurt and Sam arguing in the corner. They weren't do a very good job being secretive anyways._

"_You go talk to him!" hissed Kurt._

"_No, you! Why does it have to be me?" replied Sam._

"_Because you're straight and you can relate to girl issues!"_

"_Fine." Sam left the conversation and walked over to him._

"_Hey, it's her loss okay? Don't worry about it, man. We're going to rock it, just let yourself have some fun," said Sam, clapping him on the shoulder._

"_Yeah. I will," he said, shaking the feeling. They were on in a couple of minutes. Rachel was yelling directions left and right._

"_Noah! You're on stage left! Not right! What's wrong with you?" she shrieked. He trodded his way across the stage. "Gosh, you'd think with her gone, he'd focus better," he heard her mutter under her breath. Rachel had a point. He should have been paying better attention with Santana gone, but her absence had the completely opposite effect. He supposed he would get used to the idea in time. Once again, he tried to clear his mind and prepare for the performance. The curtain was being raised. They were on._

_Finn and Rachel started singing their ballad, with the rest of them chiming in. Then they launched into their classic rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'." What else?_

_He could tell the audience loved it; everyone was getting up on their feet clapping along. Puck scanned the balcony for Mr. Schue, and Puck found him in the front row, his eyes brimming with tears of pride. He was about to turn back when a spot caught his attention. He squinted, and the spot turned into a fleck, which turned into a blob, which turned into a person._

_And there she was. In the very back row of the balcony. She was very far away, watching from a distance. She looked different, like she'd lost a lot of weight and gained a lot of worries. The look on her face was indecipherable; he couldn't tell if she was happy or sad. She looked…wistful. _

_He had to turn around for the last bars of the song. They ended with a grand finale, and the curtains dropped. Sam and Quinn ran out to hug each other, and Brittany did a happy dance._

"_That was so great!" squealed Tina, "We're so going to win! Vocal Adrenaline is going down!" He was sure a couple of others said words somewhat along those lines, but he wasn't listening. He had to find her. He might never get the chance to ever see her again. This was it. He pushed past Finn and Mike, and headed for the door._

"_Noah! Where are you going? They're going to announce the results!" Rachel yelled. _

"_I don't care," he said. It wasn't a complete lie, but he had more important things to do. He ran out and looked up to see if she was still there, to see if he hadn't just imagined her. From the floor, his eyes met hers. Her brown eyes widened in alarm. She had seen him coming. She started to get up, and gathered her program and her coat. She hurried out the back. He dashed out to lobby, trying to see if he could catch her before she left. He found her just in time._

"_Santana, wait!" he yelled, grabbing her arm. She turned around. "God, what are you doing here? Jesus fucking Christ, Santana. You could have at least told us you were coming, after what happened." The disbelief was apparent in his voice._

"_Please stop. You guys were amazing, but I shouldn't have come. Goodbye, Puck," she said, looking straight him in the eye. She gave him one last glance and walked out into the New York rain. _

_It was only after he returned on stage (where they had placed second, after all) that he realized what the indecipherable emotion on her face was._

_Regret. _

* * *

He got off at the motel, and cursed himself for spending so much on transportation. He had come to New York with good intentions, the intention of finding Santana Lopez. But now that he was sitting in a dinky motel that had peeling wallpaper and a leaky faucet, he questioned what he was doing here.

What was he thinking? He couldn't find her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to her. He had no idea where to find her, no less. In such a big place, where was he going to start? He'd lost his way. Again.

And if he did find her, what was he going to say? Would she even remember him? Would she even want to see him? She was a supermodel now. She probably didn't have time for old high school friends anymore. He knew that if he was in her position, he would have wiped all traces of Lima, Ohio from his memory already.

But he was stuck here. If he didn't find her, maybe he would just get a job selling hot dogs in Central Park. He could handle that.

No, no. That would be silly. He was going to find her, if it was the last thing he'd ever do in his pathetic life. All he would have to do was ask around. Fashion Week was coming up; he'd seen ads for it on the way over. That was a thing for models to do, right? It couldn't be that hard.

He had no plan, but he had a feeling it would all work out. It always did.

**Not my fav chapter, but whatever. Let me know what you think. Rate it even if you hate it, and dont be afraid to call me out. You too, silent readers!~**


	4. Chapter 4

Santana was late. And she knew better than that. She was a professional. One of the girls she used to work with in Milan was once 3 hours late to a show, and Diane von Furstenberg threw her out on her hungover ass.

It's just that her alarm didn't go off (an amateur mistake she wouldn't forgive herself for), then she had to straighten her hair because the casting director called for pin-straight hair. The whole thing was just…stressful. Thank god she wasn't with Victoria's Secret today; Daniel would have slaughtered her, stuffed her body in a couch, then said that she went off to rehab on some tropical island. It was just another average modeling call for Lucky Jeans. She guessed she had a leg up on some of the other models being a national modeling icon and all, but still, being late was very very bad.

_

* * *

She'd blown it. She just knew it. She was soaking wet, the ink from the wet subway map in her hand bleeding onto her white T-shirt. The best part? She was in the middle of SoHo with no idea how to get to her gosee. Even if she'd hailed a taxi (a very expensive idea), she would be at least an hour late. And by that time, the skinny Ukrainian bitch she'd seen at the recent shoots would've already got the job._

_Still, Santana Madison didn't give up. She was going to get there, she was going to wow the agent, and she was going to book the job. Better late than never, right? Uhm…_

"_Excuse me? Hi, can you help me? I'm trying to get here. Do you know how?" she said to the next hipster she found on the street, jabbing the circled address on her map multiple times._

"_Sure, sure. You're only like ten blocks away. Just keep walking this way, it's just past the statue. You'll be there in like 15 minutes, although I don't know if your feet will survive…" he commented, gesturing to the 3-inch platforms she wore already digging into her ankles._

"_I'll live," she said, before walking off. It was only three blocks after that she realized she'd forgotten to thank him. By the time she arrived, the fluorescently lit room was practically empty, just a few girls left in the lobby. Santana took a seat on the couch, clutching her skinny portfolio with a death grip. She looked around for familiar faces and saw the Ukrainian model she'd encountered several times before. Santana peeked at the modeling card the model held in her hand. So the name was Tatiana. She'd remember that._

"_They already called your name. Looks like you're through, honey," she said, tossing her hair._

"_Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure they can squeeze me in," Santana asserted. They both knew that was a lie though. Rule #1 in modeling? Don't be late. Who was she to assume she was important enough for Calvin Klein's people to just "squeeze in"? They were both busy people. _

_Tatiana was called, and she went in. Santana sat alone in the lobby, heart restless. She needed this job. She was down to only $600 in her bank account. And with this lifestyle she was forced to keep up for her job? She'd be evicted in no time, or worse, forced to go back home. It didn't matter that she was 19 now. She still had no idea how to take care of herself. Minutes passed, and Santana became even more nervous. Tatiana must have gotten the job; she must be already talking contracts with the director. Why else would a simple casting call take so long? All you had to do was go in, show your portfolio, walk a couple of times, and leave a modeling card._

_Then Tatiana walked out, a smug look on her face. She shot Santana a pitiful glare and walked out. The casting director, a sleazy looking man with a mustache that reminded Santana of Tom Selleck came out._

"_Yes?" he asked, raising an eyebrow._

"_Hi, I'm Santana Madison. I'm so sorry I'm late, but could you please please please just let me walk. I have my portfolio and everything. I'm so sorry-"_

"_I know who you are. I saw your DKNY ad. Very impressive, but can you walk?"_

"_Yes, I can. Please, let me show you. I need this job," she begged. Two years ago, she would have rather lived as a small town lowlife than beg for a job. She hated how desperate and pathetic she sounded, but she really had no choice._

"_All right, but just this once, Miss Madison. You know we take our models very seriously at Calvin Klein. If I didn't know you could photograph well, you wouldn't even be talking to me right now," he said, opening the door, gesturing for her follow him inside. She scrambled, her hairbrush falling out of her bag. She left it on the floor._

"_Thank you so much, Mr. Johnson"_

"_Please, call me Charlie"_

"_Well, okay…Charlie"_

_She set her bag down on the chair by the door inside the room, and got ready to hand him her portfolio. He stopped her._

"_Please, I don't need to see that. Just walk, baby." She thought it was a little strange for a casting director for a major label would just dismiss something as important as a portfolio, but she ignored her ambivalent thoughts. Anyways, she complied and walked from the front table to the back a couple of times. He stopped her abruptly._

"_Stop. I've seen enough"_

"_Enough?"_

"_Look, Santana. No doubt you're a very talented model, but at Calvin Klein we need a little extra. We need more than a pretty face and strong walk…do you know what we need?"_

"_No, but I promise I can give it to you," she asserted. What more did you need to be a good model? You could be a temperamental, high maintenance bitch and get away with anything if you were good enough. She would learn that soon enough._

"_Come sit down, baby" He patted the seat next to him on his plush couch. She complied._

"_We need our girls to have fire, we need oomph. Do you catch my drift?" Santana was confused, she shook her head. Charlie put his hand on her thigh._

"_How about now?" he asked. Santana was frozen. He moved his large, sweaty palm higher up._

"_So what do you say? You wanna be one of Charlie's Angels?" he said greasily. She knew about this happening. She'd heard about it in the movies; she'd even overheard a couple of the girls at the DKNY shoot she did talk about it. But she never thought it would happen to her. She'd always thought sheer talent and charisma would get her the job. It would make her a star, she didn't need to whore herself out like everyone else. She needed to be a model, she needed to succeed. But at what cost? Most girls would have either burst into tears and ran out or got on their backs. Not Santana. _

"_Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Johnson. No job of yours can buy this," she snipped and walked out the door with more confidence than she had come in with. _

_Obviously, she didn't book the job. She hadn't expected it to be like this, her first year of modeling in New York City. She had exactly four jobs total this year. Things needed to change. _

* * *

She dashed out of the lobby of her apartment building, not bothering to say goodbye to her favorite doorman, Fabio. She grabbed onto her steaming thermos of coffee with one hand, as if it were a life raft in a sea of early modeling call times. She was applying mascara with the other hand, while walking down the sidewalk (an acquired, but mastered skill, of course). In fact, she didn't even notice when she crashed into an unlikely wanderer.

He did though. Puck looked down at the petite girl he'd just ran into. It was six in the morning, and he'd decided to set out on his New York journey, looking for something to do in this damn city. He'd expected to meet a couple of panhandlers in the subway, maybe get crapped on by a pigeon, but certainly not this. Especially not at seven in the morning. When he saw who he'd run into, he almost didn't believe his luck.

"Santana!" he exclaimed. He was so unprepared to meet her. It wasn't supposed to be like this. What was he going to say to her? Uhm hi, it's your long lost high school more-than-friend? Remember me? Actually, that didn't sound too bad…

"Huh?" she said groggily before realizing that her body had just come into contact with another human being, no less. "Oh my god, I am so sorry! But really, you gotta watch where you're going!" she snapped.

"Santana," he repeated. Now he was sure it was her. Even though she was just wearing jeans and a T-shirt with sky-high stilettos, she had a foreign glamour about her that he barely recognized. She had walked with an A-list aura, owning the sidewalk she trotted on. She made every girl on the street want to be her. She was a pro at that, he admitted.

"Look, I'd be glad to give you an autograph, but I'm really late. I have to go," she said as she tried to push past him.

"Santana. It's me!" he exclaimed. Really? That finally caught her attention and she looked up at the handsome face that went with the brawny body she'd slammed into. His face was familiar, and she froze as a defense tactic. She couldn't place a name on this man that she knew she'd more than known at one point in her life. What she did know was that this "stranger" was kept safe in a part of her mind that she'd shoved to the back. But now she had to go back and get him from the place in her heart she reserved for her old life. Memories she'd guarded so tightly that she'd almost forgotten about them. Then finally, it came to her.

"Puck?" she squeaked.

"Yeah, it's me. I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me," he said. She knew who he was. He looked different too. His eyes had a deliberate hardness in them, proof that war had changed him forever.

"I remember," she said quietly. She didn't know what to think; she's ill-equipped for this. She thought she'd left all traces of her former self behind. But she'd be lying if she hadn't spent hours lying in bed awake, thinking up ways to give everyone in Lima, Ohio a big fat, Fuck you. Look at me, I made it. None of you believed in me, but I did it anyways.

Now on the day of all days, she had nothing to say to him. At least nothing she could think of in that moment. He couldn't say anything either. He was mesmerized. An unsettling silence filled the air between them. They both had places to me, but neither left.

"So…" he started.

"Yeah. Wow. It's you, how long have you been in New York? What a surprise," she said in a manner that lead him to believe that it wasn't one of those pleasant surprises.

"Just a couple of days, I've been chilling," he said. He wasn't ready to tell her about his pathetic life yet.

"Well, you know I'd love to chat but I'm really late for a job. Here's my number, call me. We could get coffee or something," she rambled, writing her number on her napkin, hoping he wouldn't sell it to TMZ. She struggled with all the stuff she was carrying.

"Sure, sure," he said as he steadied the toppling girl.

She shoved the napkin in his hand, noticing how rough it was. She flashed him a million dollar smile that undoubtedly had a commercialized, artificial aura about it, and dashed into the street to hail a cab, stilettos in hand.

"Bye!" she yelled, getting into the yellow taxi. He grinned and raised his hand in a goodbye gesture. In the cab, she chided herself for being so rude to him, a result of being so scared of revisiting old ghosts. She was sure he must have thought she was an egotistical, bratty bitch. Well, what else was new? The rest of the day, she couldn't concentrate. The casting director told her that she looked distracted, like she was searching for something lost. So she didn't get the job. It would have been a slap in the face if it wasn't for the circumstances of that eventful day.

He stayed standing there on the sidewalk for a good three minutes after she rode away. Again, he didn't know what to expect when he arrived in New York, but he was one lucky son of a bitch. She'd practically dropped out of the sky, and fell right in front of him. Thanks, God. He took another look at the napkin in his palm; he'd need to get himself a cell phone. She'd written in out in her memorable girly scrawl. He looked up and found a pimply faced teenager enviously gawking at him.

"Dude. Santana fucking Madison just gave you her number," the boy said, staring at him in awe.

Yes. Yes she did.

**About the "reunion," yeah, it was uneventful, but thats how I imagined it. Meet your ex like 5 years later on a sidewalk? Awkward. Sorry if you're disappointed and wanted a kiss and make up reunion, but they have a whole story left to reconnect! No worries. **

**Tell me what you think, PLEASEEEEEE. Dont be afraid to call me out about bad writing and give suggestions, I live for that stuff.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! Well here's chapter five!**

He stared at his brand new cell phone, wondering if he would ever have the courage to call her up. He scolded himself for his cowardliness. Noah Puckerman had been to hell and back, through dozens of intense military operations. He'd risked his life every single day when he was in the service, and now he couldn't even call up his high school "girlfriend." It was pathetic. He was pathetic. He looked around the sad apartment room he'd subletted for the month. The walls were an ugly eggshell color, and he was pretty sure his neighbors were turning their own apartment into a meth lab. Well, it wasn't like there was anything else he could do here. Wasn't Santana the whole point of coming to New York? It wasn't like he had any plans of moving here, or starting a life here. Yet. Or maybe he never would.

He dialed her number and waited patiently for her to pick up. It was only 10am; she certainly couldn't have been too busy at the time.

"Hello?" answered an annoyed voice, belonging to Santana of course.

"Hey, Santana, its's Puck," he started. That was as far as he got.

"Oh, hi! Listen, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm really sorry about how rude I was the other day. I was in a rush, and I'm not used to seeing people I actually somewhat like on the street"

"People you actually like, huh?" he teased. Her apology was a somewhat sincere one (well, as sincere as it would ever have gotten), and he was glad to have it, even though he hadn't really felt insulted in the first place. Any sort of empathy from her was willingly accepted.

"Look, do you want the apology or not?"

"Sure, sure. Wait, where are you? I hear giggling in the background…"

"Oh, I'm at work" She looked over at the corner where Sasha and Coral were gossiping as they were being fitted. Katie sat in the other corner, reading a thumbed copy of _Wuthering Heights_. She sent Sasha and Coral death glares, and mouthed the words "shut up." Her attempt to quiet her coworkers failed, as Coral noticed the excited look on her face and began conspiring with Sasha immediately about Santana's newfound giddiness.

"Right. Wow, I can't believe you're a celebritard. Imagine that. I bet they have a sign for you out on the highway back home. 'Welcome to Lima, Ohio- home of supermodel Santana Lopez'," he laughed.

"No, actually. No they don't" she said abruptly, and he wondered if he had said something to offend her.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, you didn't. Do you want to get coffee or something, to catch up or whatever?" It seemed like the only words she ever said to him were "no" and she wanted to genuinely extend an olive branch. She was never good at making new friends, as evidenced by the fact that she had few friends in New York. She might as well go back to her old friends.

"Sure, how's 1 o'clock today? There's a little café I saw in Central Park the other day that a local recommended to me. Would that work for you? I mean, I don't wanna encroach on your busy schedule"

"That's fine. Yeah, I know the place. See you there."

"Okay, bye."

"Bye." She hung up, and fixed the creeping grin on her face and replaced it with her usual confident look.

"Who was that?" squealed Coral.

"No one you know" was the annoyed reply. She was sick of everyone butting into her business. Perez Hilton couldn't wait to make a remark about her "fake" boobs every chance he got, and she'd found a creepy guy digging through her trash more than once, probably looking to sell some incriminating dirt to Us Weekly. She wanted to keep Puck to herself. He was her little secret.

"Oooh, Santana's got a boyfriend," sung Sasha. What were they, teenagers?

"Please, ladies. You all know I don't do boyfriends."

"What about Ilario? Cause if you don't want him, I'll gladly take him," quipped Coral. Right. Ilario. She had almost forgotten about him, although Santana couldn't possibly do it, even if she tried. The Italian model called her every chance he got, after every random hookup. He wasn't anybody special, just a boytoy. Besides, he lived on the other side of the world; they'd "hung out" only a dozen times. Now that she thought about it, Puck too had once been a random boytoy. But the two were so different she hadn't even thought of the similarity until now, if you could even call it one.

"Of course you would. And you can have him; it's not like I own him," Santana replied. Sasha raised her eyebrow. Ilario wasn't anyone special, but he was enough for Santana to get territorial about. Hell, she would claw out Coral's eyes even if she was dating Hugh Hefner.

"Then who was that?" piped Katie. The girl rarely spoke, and Santana felt like she had to answer her. If she'd replied in her usual snarky self, Santana was sure that the poor newbie would be traumatized forever.

"Just an old friend I'm meeting for lunch. You guys don't know him."

"The reason we don't know him is because we don't know anything about you. Anything 'old' about you at least. You didn't even submit a picture to last year's 'When they were baby angels' feature in the catalogue," remarked Coral, making those silly air quotes with her fingers.

"Whatever." She didn't need to explain herself to anybody. She walked out of the room, and into hair and make-up, hoping she could have her portion of the shoot done as quickly as possible, so she could get the hell out of there.

He sat in the café waiting, nervously drumming his fingers on the countertop. The local was right; the place was nice. Nice enough for a "celebrity" to go to, but still down-to-earth enough for a nobody like him. He glanced at the clock, it was 10 past 1. She'd be here. He was right. He looked up just in the time to see her dashing through the door, her flying hair whipping behind her, struggling to keep up.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. You know how photo shoots can be," she blurted, taking a seat across from him. It seemed like all she did these days was apologize.

Actually, he had no idea what photo shoots were like, but he nodded his head and just went with it.

"So how've you been? You're so successful; you must be thrilled," he said.

"Yeah," she muttered.

"You know, I never once doubted you. I know how cheesy that sounds, but I always knew you could do it."

"I know."

"Have you stayed in New York this whole time?"

"Yeah, I fly through Europe a couple of times a year, for some haute couture shows. But mainly I just work here, doing print and ad campaigns for Victoria's Secret. You wouldn't know how tight the contracts are."

"You're right. I don't know." He looked up and found her staring nostalgically at him. He cocked his eyebrow, "Yes? Are you mesmerized by my beauty already?"

"Ha. It's just so weird seeing you without that silly mohawk. You know, I kinda miss it…why did you shave it? I didn't think you ever would have." It was almost embarrassing for her to admit it.

"Well, they don't let you have a mohawk in the army. Just crew cuts," he said sheepishly, running his hand over the shaved topography of his head.

"What? You were in the army?" The look on her face was a mix of shock and concern.

"Yeah, for the last couple of years. I actually just got back."

"Oh my gosh, your mother must have been worried sick. Knowing you, I'm surprised you came back in one piece. I know I would have been," she said. Realizing what she had just said she quickly added, "I mean, if I were her."

He chuckled. "You haven't seen me in five years and all you think about it my ma? It wasn't so bad, you get used to it after a while. Yeah, well, it wasn't like there was anything for me in Lima." She averted her gaze.

"Well thank you for your service. Why did you leave?"

"Long story." He picked up on her curious look, but ignored it. He'd save that one for another day. How would that sound: Oh hey, by the way, I got kicked out of the military because of you.

"How long are you in New York? Do you like live here now?" It came out sounding meaner than she intended.

"What, sick of me already? I actually don't know. Just trying to go with the flow. I have an apartment I've subletted for a month, out in Greenwich Village."

"I, for one, am glad you came to New York. You'll fit right in with all the jackasses here," she joked. This was good. They were being civil. Hell, they were cracking jokes.

"Thanks San."

"So, why New York? Did you just randomly pick a city in the US?"

"I came for you."

They were no longer joking.

He stared at her, full-fledged, and waited for her next move. She suddenly felt suffocated. She didn't know if it was the beautiful boy (who was now a man) looking at her, as if he expected something, or the fact that the stupid barista had no idea how to steam a mocha without fogging up the entire café. But the whole scenario was just too surreal, too close for comfort. She had to get out. She got up and excused herself to the ladies' room.

_

* * *

He didn't know why she had called him here. She was never the one to initiate their "hang-out sessions." So this had come as a surprise. Here they were, on a date (gasp!) at Breadstix, sitting across from each other in a sticky booth._

"_So why are we here? Other than to abuse the Breadstix Tuesday special?" he asked._

_She had been fidgeting the entire night, and she barely touched her drink. She'd only had maybe 3 breadsticks, which was a dead giveaway to him that something was indeed wrong. She'd been weird for the last two weeks, distant. Santana had always been detached, but this was even more uncharacteristic._

"_I have something to tell you, and you need to promise to not get mad."_

"_Why would I get mad? Are you pregnant or something?" _

_She flinched. "No."_

"_Then what is it?"_

"_There's this job. In New York. For Teen Vogue. It's this weekly modeling blog job thing. I don't know. But it's legit."_

"_So?" His mouth was full of spaghetti, but the way that she spoke, in fragments, indicated she was dead serious. Something was about to go down._

"_They want me. Me. Out of thousands of girl, they want me," she said, almost squealing._

"_Wow! Well, congrats, I guess. If it's that big of a deal. Why would I get mad?"_

"_I'm going to take the job. But it's for three months. Starting next week."_

"_Three months? But…what about school?" It was a stupid excuse, but it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. How could she just abandon him like that?_

"_I'll just graduate after I make up all my classes in the summer. Don't worry, my diploma will still be there when I get back."_

"_What about Glee Club? We need you if we're going to make it to nationals! You're just going to leave?" His voice was quickly rising and he'd attracted the attention of the couple in the next booth._

_She looked up at him with forlorn eyes. "You guys don't need me. You'll do great. Look, I need to do this for myself. Please understand."_

"_I do, it's just…I'll miss you," he admitted. Her eyes softened and she brought her hand to his cheek._

"_I'll be back before you know it. Promise."_

* * *

She came back from the restroom, looking slightly more flustered than before. She chose to ignore his comment from before, and he let it slide. Wasn't it a bit too early to get into all that sentimental declaration crap? Couldn't they just civil a little longer, act like normal reunited high school classmates? They could sweep their history under the rug, but for how long?

"I hope you don't mind, but I ordered," he said, breaking the silence.

"Oh yeah, as long as it's not too heavy or anything." Their waiter came over, with a steaming mug in his hand.

"Yes?" she asked. She was used to being interrupted all the time: fans asking for autographs, journalists asking how she felt about the new La Perla/Victoria's Secret collaboration, etc. But weirdly enough, she felt slightly miffed this time.

"The man in the corner would like to send you this drink, miss," said the waiter, gesturing to the dark corner. Santana looked in that direction, this too was not a surprise. An average, slightly geeky looking man sat alone at one of the tables, holding the New York Times. He tipped his hat towards her. Santana turned her attention back towards the waiter.

"You can tell him that is awfully generous, but no thank you. I am here with someone else, and that would be very rude to my friend here, no? Please, I'm way out of his league" she said, throwing in that last comment with a wink. The waiter simply nodded, surprised at her refusal. Puck let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and felt a random surge of pride.

"I guess that happens to you a lot, huh?" She shrugged. The waiter soon came back with two whopping slices of chocolate cake. The calorie count on the frosting alone would have been the equivalent of a whole day's worth of food for Santana. Her eyes widened, and she started hysterically laughing.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you forget I'm a model? There's no way I can eat that. That's like…enough to feed a third-world country," she protested.

"Actually, I've been to a third-world country, so I hate to break it to you, but you're wrong." She couldn't argue with him if he pulled the soldier card on her. He waved to the waiter, who took away one of the plates. "We'll share."

"No, I mean. I can't eat that. It's way too fatty. And I can't gain that much weight, it's in my contract."

"Come on, Santana. You used to love this stuff. You know you want to, when was the last time you had dessert?" He waited. She didn't reply.

"I don't remember."

"Really? That's just tragic. Dig in." he said cheerfully.

"No, no, no. I don't think you understand. I don't think there's actually any way for me to eat that piece of cake without me feeling so bad about myself afterwards that I would run to the bathroom and puke my guts out," she said, her voice revealing a slight distress. She started to shake a little bit, and he could definitely tell that something was wrong. She didn't know why she was revealing so much about herself to him (she was feeling that a lot lately), but it was like the second she stepped into this stupid café, all the walls she'd built up for her own protection, brick by brick, had blown away into the wind.

_

* * *

Her first ever launch party. Wow. The moment was so surreal. There was a fondue fountain! Endless bottles of champagne! And the flatbread they had here rivaled the breadsticks back home. She excused herself, and went to the restroom._

_When she went to check her makeup in the mirror, she heard retching sounds coming from one of the bathroom stalls. Then hurling, then flushing. She teetered over, and examined the feet under the door. There was no doubt that it was Coral, her black stilettos revealing a perfect coral pedicure._

"_Coral? Are you okay?" she asked. Coral came out of the stall, wiping her mouth with the back of your hand and popping in an Altoid. "Are you sick? Maybe you should go home…" It had sounded pretty bad in there, and it certainly smelled terrible. _

"_I'm fine, and I'm not sick."_

"_Oh my gosh, don't tell me you're pregnant!" she exclaimed. She was so over the pregnant chick thing. To Santana's chagrin, Coral let out of a rippling, almost belittling laugh. _

"_You're funny, Santana. I'm not pregnant. Not all of us can afford to stuff ourselves the way you do," she remarked with a sneer and walked out the door. _

_It was that moment that made Santana became self-conscious of her body. She'd always known that she was hot, and assumed the modeling pressure of being stick-skinny would eventually catch up with her. But she supposed she thought was special, sort of exempt from that. Guess not._

_Three months later, when she was just eating turkey slices and drinking orange juice every day, she wished Coral had just been pregnant._

* * *

"Hey, hey. It's okay. You don't have to eat it," he said. He didn't want to step on her toes, especially since they'd just started to get to know each other again, and he didn't want to see her so distraught either.

"No, I do. It would be good for me. I want to. I just don't know if I can," she whimpered. She'd gotten over her short-lived anorexia years ago, but she'd never fully recovered.

"Okay, let's try something. Just watch me. When I take a bite, you take one. We can mirror each other, okay?"

"Okay," she said, slowly picking up her fork. He smiled and stabbed his fork into the cake, taking a bite.

"Your turn."

She took a piece of cake and slowly put it in her mouth. She chewed it, savoring the taste before trying to shove it down her throat. She choked a little bit, but it needed to go down. It had to. Success.

"Good job," he said, before taking another bite. She followed suit.

And they sat like that in the café for the next hour, the two of them sharing a piece of chocolate cake, bite by bite. It might have taken them forever, and the people walking by surely thought they were lunatics, but it was worth it. Because when they were finished, she only had two words for him.

"Thank you."

**So a reviewer said that she liked the "new Santana." When I asked her how she interpreted the new Santana, I got this wonderful answer that really helped me write her character better. I cant convey the character I want to unless I know what you guys are getting on your end of the stick (if that made any sense at all). So thats when I was inspired to write these little "book club" questions, to make sure you guys are getting the most out of my story.**

**1) Most celebrities say that they're "living their dream job." Does this apply to Santana? What is the significance of the word "work"? That is, why does she always refer to her job as "work"?**

**2) Why do I always refer to Santana's coworkers as "girls" even though they are well into their twenties?**

**What do you think? Let me know!  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the wait, I think its worth it though. Its getting juicy!**

_

* * *

Page Six:_

_Spotted: Supermodel Santana Madison leaving low-key Central Park Café D'Arte arm in arm with a mystery man earlier this week. Who is this new piece of arm candy? Could it be love for the perennially single celeb? Turn the page for a photo!_

* * *

Santana groaned in frustration and tossed the New York Post at her wall, knocking over her alarm clock in the process. She allowed herself to have a mini-tantrum in the security of her bed in her secluded apartment. She kicked and screamed for a good two minutes, running her bedcovers off the mattress and messying her hair. Five years ago, she would have been squealing with glee for a mention in the infamous Page Six. It was so hard to get your name out there in New York society, and a two line shoutout would have pretty much solidified her modeling legacy—if she even had one.

But now? She felt violated. Her friendship with Puck was going so well, if you could even call it a friendship yet. They hadn't killed each other yet or worse, slept with each other, or even worse, brought up the past. Everything had been perfect. He was the one thing that made her kind of excited in the last couple of months, not even the Dolce & Gabbana dress Ilario had sent her last month from Italy as a peace offering that she ended up giving to Katie. And now she was sure Richard Johnson and the rest of the damned paparazzi had scared Puck away for good, like every guy she tried to date. Plus, even if he did stick around, she didn't want to share him with anyone, not Hollywood—nobody. He was supposed to her little secret, like the "happy pills" Quinn's mom used to stash in the bathroom cabinet whenever she needed a pick-me-up. And now he was exposed, revealed to the harsh world she lived in.

Her phone buzzed from the sparse bedstand beside her and she picked it up. It was her first day off in too long and this wasn't exactly the perfect start to her perfect day. At least she'd gotten to sleep in. She looked at the screen, and saw that it was Puck calling. She groaned again. Maybe he hadn't seen the little "note" in the paper. Well, it was only like 4 sentences. An easy miss. Oh god, who was she kidding? Everyone who was anyone in this city read Page Six. And there was a color photo of the two of them on the next page! Even if he hadn't seen it, she was sure he would eventually, just like the rest of the world.

"Hi, what's up?" she answered. It was his first call since their little meeting two days earlier. She had been sort of waiting for him to call, but she hadn't wanted to make the first move and all that cliché crap.

"Hey, you have the day off right?" he asked. He wanted to hang out with her again. It wasn't like he had anything else to do in this city. She knew what was coming; he was going to ask her out. But she didn't want to waste both of their times (she was a very busy person, naturally), so she just decided to blurt it out. If he was going to run away from her because of his newfound "fame" or whatever, he might as well do it now and save her the trouble.

"Yeah, look I need to talk to you about something," she started. His heart sunk a little bit, because the last time she had said those words, things ended terribly. He stayed silent, getting ready for the blow.

"Are you there?" she said softly after a few seconds. She was just as worried as he was.

"Yeah," he grunted.

"Uhm, have you by any chance read the New York Post today?" she asked meekly.

"No, what the hell is that?" he answered. What the fuck was she talking about? He heard her take in a giant gasp of air through the line.

"It's a newspaper that's pretty big and respected around here. They have this gossip section, called Page Six. And I, uhm, just wanted to let you know that we're in it. Surprise!" she said. She added in that last bit to try and lighten the mood. So far it wasn't working.

"We?"

"Yeah, they have a picture of us leaving the café…from Monday, you know?" She didn't know how to characterize their previous little get-together. It wasn't really a date, but it was more than a couple of old friends meeting up. In the two hours they'd spent in the café, he learned more about her than anyone else in her life.

"Oh. Is it uh, well, incriminating?" He didn't really know how to respond.

"Oh no, nothing like that. They just suggested that we were a couple. Ridiculous right?" she laughed awkwardly.

"Ridiculous." he affirmed uncomfortably. Another awkward silence. "Anyways, did you maybe want to get dinner tonight? No more chocolate cake, promise."

"What?" she blurted.

"You. Me. Dinner. Yes?"

"No, I understand what you said, dumbass. That's it? You really want to take me to dinner?"

"Yeah…Why is that so crazy?" He may have been just an army brat, but he wasn't a total idiot. Did she think he wasn't good enough to take her to dinner, after he'd spent like an hour Monday trying to get her over her weird chocolate cake fear?

"Well…I just thought you might not want to see me anymore after the whole paparazzi thing. I'm giving you a free pass here, Puckerman. I'm giving you the chance to walk away now before your face is going to get plastered all over Perez Hilton."

"Are you a retard?"

"Excuse me?" She was being nice to him for once, and in return he calls her a retard?

"Jesus Santana. There's no way I'd stop talking to you because of something like that. If I did, who else would I have to bug all day? Umemployment's a bitch. Besides, this could be my fifteen minutes of fame," he joked.

"Oh." It wasn't the answer she was expecting, but she'd take it.

"So l was saying, why don't we go get like Chinese or something? I haven't had anything spicy in a while."

"Actually, we might want to stay clear of the public. I'm sure the stupid paps are going to be all over us. Like a mob. Sorry." She felt bad for turning him down, because she really didn't want to. But she had no choice. "Why don't you come over and I'll cook us dinner?" It was a generous offer; few people had ever seen the inside of her apartment.

He started laughing hysterically. "You, cooking? Do you remember what happened last time we tried that?"

_

* * *

Santana was annoyed at herself. She considered herself a feminist. Even more so, she believed in self-suffiency. She sure as hell didn't need anyone. But when Puck texted her saying, "Ma is on call tonight. Come over and make me a sandwich ;)," she couldn't help but give in to his pathetic—and sexist—little plea and drive the nine miles from Lima Heights Adjacent to his own little house. And she hated herself for it._

"_You owe me big time for this," she said when he opened the front door, jabbing her car key in his face. She stomped past him, casually waving at his little sister, who was parked permanently in front of their TV._

"_What, no hello kiss?" he protested, pulling her back to give her a kiss._

"_It's called a goodbye kiss for a reason, Puck," she sighed._

"_Who says you're gonna leave tonight?"_

"_Don't start. I'm only here to make sure you and Sarah don't starve."_

"_So what are you going to make?"_

"_Uhm…I don't know. You know I don't cook. I can do a grilled cheese," she offered on a whim, inspired by their recent Glee Club theme. He nodded and went out to play Super Mario with his sister._

_Making a simple grilled cheese sandwich turned out to be more complicated than she originally planned. Come on, how hard could it be if Finnocence managed to pull it off? Still, the Puckermans didn't have any sliced cheese so she ended up using shredded Mexican cheese which was intended for quesadillas or something of the sort. _

_First she dropped the bread on the skillet accidentally while trying to rip the bag open with her teeth. The pan was already too hot for her to touch and she didn't care enough to fish it back up. The loud sizzling sound scared her and she dropped the bag of cheese in surprise, which landed upside down. The little cheese shavings fell out, half of them precipitating to the linoleum floor, while the other half missed the skillet and landed in the burner. Pretty soon, she smelled the burnt plastic, seeing as the bag landed on the pan, which was infused with the smell of burnt cheese. To make things worse, she suddenly felt a continuous stream of water spraying her head from above, soaking her in the process. _

_The fire sprinklers had gone off. Great. She let out a frustrated scream. Puck came running in._

"_Jesus. What happened in here?"_

"_Don't ask." He didn't, out of courtesy, even though she had totally trashed their kitchen. He couldn't really fault her, considering he was the one who asked her over. An hour later, she was parked on the couch with Puck eating a pizza, flickering through his Pay-Per-View porn channels._

"_You know, you could be pretty good at this housewife homemaker stuff," he offered._

"_Ha. You're stupider than I thought. Like I'd ever stick around for that shit. You know I'm too good for this place."_

"_I know."_

_Three hours later, Allison Puckerman returned home to find her kitchen in ruins, and two teenagers asleep on the couch—a migraine-inducing sight for any single parent. Santana nestled into her son's side, wearing a pair of Puck's boxers, along with a Hannah Montana T-shirt belonging to Sarah. Puck had his arm wrapped around her, and they both had faraway looks on their faces. The coffee table was littered with Cheetos, pizza crusts, and empty beer cans. _

_Allison sighed. Allison didn't hate the girl, but really, Puck was too caught up in her for his own good. Santana practically had him wrapped around her skinny, class ring-embellished finger._

_Santana Lopez was going to be the death of her son._

* * *

"Oh, right." She'd forgotten about that, even though they'd gotten in tons of trouble that night. His rejection stung a little bit, but she told herself it was all in the name of practicality that he turned her down.

"Look, I'm willing to face the throngs of paparazzi. I've been in worse ambush situations than a couple of annoying photographers. And I doubt they will follow us to Bamboo Palace. So what do you say, dinner?"

"Fine, but if a paparazzo tries to shove his camera up my dress to get a picture of my panties, you better protect me." The hard bitch edge to her voice was back, but he took it gracefully. It was…familiar, comforting almost.

"You got it. If you're worried about your panties, you could just not wear them, you know…" he suggested.

"Ha. You wish."

"So bad, baby. So is 7 okay? I would come pick you up, but I don't have a car."

"Don't worry about it, I'll meet you there. See you in a bit." She hung up the phone and found herself strangely excited. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything so "casual." It was how she imagined normal people did things together. You know, like those sweatpant couples who just stay in all the time except for…Chinese food. She frantically jumped in the shower, and began to prepare for her night out. She didn't want to look to desperate though, so she calmed herself. She was going for the "I-couldn't-care-less" look with her wardrobe, something that reminded her of when she was in high school, when she had felt so invincible that nothing really mattered to her.

Pretty soon, 7 o'clock came around and she drove to Bamboo Palace miraculously undetected except for one pesky fan who wouldn't stop leaving her alone. Maybe Lindsay Lohan was in town and all the paparazzi had flocked to Manhattan instead. She went inside and found him already sitting in a secluded booth, the overheard florescent bulbs highlighting the worn-in smirk on his face. He got up at the sight of her and greeted her.

"Hey. You look good," he complimented. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a boyfriend tee (He wondered who she got it from). The strap of her crossbody bag dug into her skin, revealing the contours of the bra she was wearing underneath.

"Thanks," she mumbled before reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. It was a short peck, but he was glad it happened. It was the first step to something more, maybe. They sat down, and gave their order to the waitress.

"So how did you get here if you have no car? And how did you find Bamboo Palace?" she asked.

"I walked. I live just around the block."

"Really? You keep getting lucky with all the restaurants we go to. Bamboo Palace is actually kinda good, you know, as far as MSG-infused faux-Chinese food goes."

"Hey, don't knock the faux-Chinese food," he argued, pointing his chopstick at her, "It's got to be better than the gourmet sandwich crap you probably get at photo shoots."

"Are you kidding? We don't get to eat at photoshoots. Not until the very end, at least. But the sandwiches they do get us are delicious, worth every penny. You don't even know."

"Well, maybe you can take me to work with you one day and show me," he suggested, as a joke. But a weird look crossed her face.

"Maybe."

"Anyways, how's the apartment?" she said quickly, changing the subject.

"Total shit. Everything is on the verge of falling apart and the walls are covered in weird abstract nudie art. Thank god I'm out next Friday"

She laughed. "Who owns the place?"

He shrugged. "Some art chick with like forty too many piercings and dreadlocks. She's in Guatemala until next week building houses for orphans or something." She scrunched her nose.

"You screw her yet?" she asked. She felt that their friendship was far enough along that they could start with the facetious humor, insulting each other and making sex jokes.

"Ha. No, she's old."

"That hasn't stopped you before."

"So it hasn't."

"Well where are you going to go, after she comes back?"

He shrugged. She didn't press on. "Oh, here comes the food."

They spent the next hour catching up and laughing, as expected of long lost friends.

"Why did you leave the military?" she asked casually, spearing a piece of broccoli with her chopstick. It had been a question she wanted to ask ever since she first found out he'd even joined the military. She wondered if enlisting had something to do with her, and what she did to him.

"Actually, I got kicked out," he said sheepishly, running his hand over his head before realizing he didn't have a mohawk anymore.

"Oh yeah? Why?" she asked.

"Because of you, actually." He might as well tell her the truth.

"Me?" she said, totally shellshocked. Her?

"Yeah…long story."

"We have time. I mean, you can't just tell me that I got you kicked out of the military unknowingly and leave it at that."

"Fine. So you know how it gets very very lonely in the military, right?" Santana raised her eyebrows, and nodded, even though she indeed, did not know how "lonely" it could get. "Well, one of the guys got a hold of one of the Victoria's Secret catalogues…that happened to feature you." She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. "And uh, you know guys, one of them happened to make a comment about you, and I guess I just snapped."

"Snapped?" she asked. She didn't need to ask to know what the comment was about. Even though she felt incredibly blessed for having her job, she felt disgusted at the thought of people using her for their own pleasure without her consent

"I might have broken his nose and beat the shit out him. Needless to say, the bossman was not pleased," he said, all embarrassment gone from his voice.

"Are you serious?" she exclaimed. He nodded, his badass smirk creeping onto his face. "Wow. I got you kicked out of the military," she said, processing the information he'd just loaded onto her. Then, an accomplished smile creeped onto her own face. "Yeah. I got someone kicked out of the military." He must have still been thinking about her, must have still cared for her, if he'd done that. She suddenly felt guilty for shoving him aside in her own mind when she was focusing on her own career.

"Yup. Another bitchmove by Santana Lopez."

"Actually, its Madison now."

"Did you get married or something?"

She just laughed.

"Well, okay," he accepted. He noticed she had a little grain of rice stuck to her nose.

"What are you staring at?" she asked.

"You have a little something here…" he said and got up.

"Oh," she replied, and closed her eyes as he leaned over to brush it off. But when he got up close enough to see her face, to actually get a good look at it, he realized how at peace she looked. Her dreamy expression was the most content he'd ever seen her. Ever. He decided to just go for it.

So he kissed her.

At first it was an innocent thing, just a little kiss. She tasted a little different, almost foreign enough to be a stranger, but she still had that Santana quality that he would never have forgotten. He was going to pull away and apologize with something along the lines of "I'm so sorry, I have no idea what came over me," when she suddenly got up herself and deepened the kiss. What started out as an accident almost had turned into a lusty kiss, like one would imagine for the two ex-lovers. He was surprised by her forcefulness, but nonetheless obliged, running his tongue over her teeth. She surprised him even more by shoving her tongue down his throat. Soon, they had to come up for air, and they broke apart. They stood over his dinner table, eyes locked, panting. Silence.

A cough from beside their table. The waitress was standing over them, the check in her hand. If she felt uncomfortable, her businessy face didn't let on. She probably didn't even know who Santana was.

"Oh, hi. Here, I'll get that," she said quickly, digging into her bag for her black AmEx.

"No, let me," he said, grabbing her wrist. She didn't glance up.

"Are you sure?" she said, still rummaging.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm the dude, right?"

At that she looked up and giggled. "Right." He handed the waitress two twenty-dollar bills, and she walked off.

"So….you just kissed me," she said awkwardly. Awkward seemed to be the story of her life these days.

"Yup," he said, popping the p sound towards the end.

"Do you wish you hadn't?"

"Nope."

"Me neither. You know we're going to have to talk about this eventually. Do all that girly cliché shit."She really wished they wouldn't have to, but she knew they must if this was going to work. Still, she was going to put it off until the last moment possible. She was going on hold on to their little idyllic state, at the risk of everything blowing up.

"Eh, it can wait."

"Yes it can. Come on, walk me to my car."

"Sure." They got up and he escorted her over. The night sky was clear and the crisp wind bit at her shoulders.

"You can stay with me," she declared, out of the blue.

"What?"

"After your lease is up. You can stay with me," she affirmed. She considered it her highest show of affection to let someone into her apartment. He was apprehensive, but only because he didn't know if they were moving too fast. He didn't want them to skip a crucial step in their relationship and ruin everything. He didn't want to push her into anything. Maybe they should talk first. They had just kissed, for God's sake. But what was he going to say to her? No sorry, I don't want to temporarily live with you?

Instead, he said "Thanks. I'll take you up on that."

"Anything for an old friend."

**Soooo what did you think? And thank you SO much to the readers who answered the previous questions. They really helped a lot, and I even got some good ideas for the future chapters. Im only responsible for what I put out, and I have no idea how you perceive it without the feedback. So thank you.**

**Here's questions for this chapter: (Answer if you want, because I would LOVE to hear what you think, and I think its kinda fun to answer them)  
**

**1) Why is Santana so reluctant to keep her work and social life separate?**** Does it have anything to do with shame? Which is she more ashamed of: Puck (and her Lima roots that may or may not come with him) or her job?**

**2) Consider Allison Puckerman's statement: "Santana Lopez was going to be the death of her son." Foreshadow much? What's your interpretation/take on this?**

**3) How does the cooking debacle further affirm Santana's not-belonging in Lima?**

**Rate it even if you hate it! Review, please!  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Two reviews last chapter? Really, guys? Come on now! (In their defense, those were so damn good reviews) If the questions are intimidating, dont answer them! I just want you all to think about them, because it really helps with understanding this story on multiple levels. Anyways...here we go!**

He tossed and turned on the uncomfortable cot he had grown accustomed to sleeping on. The fertility statues in the corner of his rented bedroom cast large shadows on the plastered wall, and the paper lanterns suspended from the ceiling swayed with the slight breeze coming out of the ceiling vent. Ever since he came back from the military, he'd turned into somewhat of a mild insomniac. It wasn't that he couldn't sleep, but he was afraid to. Maybe Noah Puckerman wasn't one to admit fear, but the things he dreamt about night haunted him. And it was the same recurring dream over and over again.

_

* * *

The bullets were flying at a rapid speed, creating a hurricane. Men were diving into the bushes, trying to protect themselves. He saw the enemy swarm his troop, and panicked. He tightened his grip on his gun and reassessed the situation, trying to stay calm. He saw a little clearing behind one of the soldiers, a safe haven. He knew that if he made it there, he'd be home free. The loud pops that kept bursting every few seconds were breaking his concentration. He had to get to safety, but how?_

_Then he heard a cry from behind him. He whipped his head, and saw that two of his friends—Eddie and Hal—had been hit, hard. He saw a large blood splotch growing larger by the minute on Eddie's abdomen. Hal had fallen to the ground, a bullet in his leg impairing his ability to move. He was trying to crawl away. Suddenly, Puck felt something snap into gear in his mind. He realized the gravity of the situation, and knew he had to move fast. _

_He ran backwards, to the dismay of Eddie and Hal. _

"_What the fuck, Puckerman? Run the other way! Save yourself!" screamed Hal._

"_No!" Puck refused; he had to help his friends. The three of them, they started out together in boot camp. They'd suffered through so much together. He couldn't just let them die. He knelt down and tried to get Eddie with one arm, while supporting Hal with his other. It didn't work, and he kept falling over. It became apparent that he couldn't help both of them._

"_Just go, take Ed," Hal pleaded, "I can get over there myself, but Eddie, he might be bleeding out." Normally, Puck wouldn't have listened, but he knew Hal was right. Eddie was starting to lose consciousness. Puck nodded. He picked up Eddie, ducked and ran the other way._

"_I'll be back before you know it, hang on, Hal," Puck yelled. Hal nodded weakly. Puck ran to the clearing, his legs giving out a couple of times, but he went on. Once he got Eddie to safety, he tried to tamponade the wound with a wadded T-shirt, until the field paramedic got there and took Eddie back to the headquarters._

"_Get Hal, I'll be fine," Eddie said feebly, drifting in and out of consciousness. When Puck was sure Eddie would be fine, he gathered up his stuff and turned around to find Hal. When he got back out to the battle site, he found it littered with unclaimed canteens, and a couple of limp bodies. He shuddered at the sight of so much blood._

_When he finally located Hal, he saw his worst nightmare come alive. Hal was only a couple of yards away from where he last was. Only this time, there was an enemy soldier standing over him, a gun pointed to Hal's head. _

"_No, please," Hal begged. It was a blow to see the strong, fearless soldier Puck had come to see as a brother look so helpless._

_Puck ran out. "Stop! Hold your fire!"_

_Bang. _

_Too late. _

* * *

He tossed a final time, tried to shake the memory, and attempted to get a good night's sleep. He knew he would need it, because he would be moving out soon—into Santana's apartment, for the time being. He was nervous to say the least. He needed help.

The next morning, Santana went to work. It was beginning of another intense work period, but she was glad to take it on. They were coming in today for fittings for the Invincible campaign, and the next month would be full of promotional shoots: print and video. And as the star of the campaign, she would be busy. She hoped Daniel would give her a couple of days off so she could spend time with Puck.

She went to the studio, where she found Coral, Sasha, and Katie already there. Katie gave her a shy wave, and Santana waved back. She'd been kind of neglecting her little protégé ever since Puck came back into the picture, and she felt bad. Coral had a pissed off expression on her face, as usual.

"Hey," Santana greeted Katie.

"Hi, how are you?" replied Katie, her Southern accent making a rare unsuppressed appearance.

"Good. Listen, sorry I've been sort of ignoring you. I've just been really busy. One of my old friends is in town, and we've been catching up."

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine. And would this friend happen to be the one I saw you with on Page Six?" Katie asked slyly.

Santana groaned. "Not you too. Yeah, he is. But we're not dating!"

"Not yet," Katie teased.

"Ha ha. Been there, done that." But would she do it again?

"Well, whatever it is, I'm glad. You seem a lot happier lately."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The other day, you ate a whole plate of chocolate covered strawberries and didn't complain once about how fat you'd get."

"Ugh. Don't remind me."

"He's good for you."

Santana started hysterically laughing, and Katie shot her a quizzical look.

"Wait till you meet him, I think you should. You are the first person in my entire life who has ever said anything like that to me about Puck. All throughout high school, I had to sneak out to meet him, and my best friends told me I was too good for him. I never listened. They all said he was bad news," Santana explained before walking towards the center of the room.

"That doesn't mean he's not good for you," Katie replied quietly.

Sasha and Coral were already stripping down, assistants equipped with measuring tapes running circles around them. Katie and Santana followed suit.

"Daniel, why do we even have to come in today?" Coral asked, as she raised her arms. An assistant wrapped the tape around her bust.

"Because we're doing fittings, Coral. Unless you want your boobs to drown in a bra ten times too big, you're in this. And don't complain, I pay you more than you deserve with all your whining," replied Daniel tiredly. The poor man didn't get paid _enough_ to deal with bratty supermodels.

"It won't even matter, you're just going to shove me to the background anyways, for the _star_ here," Coral exaggerated, gesturing towards Santana. Santana gave her a snide glare, one that had bitch written all over it.

"Actually, I am, Coral if your attitude doesn't change," Daniel snipped, before taking yet another call on his Crackberry.

Suddenly, Sasha let out a little yelp. "Ouch! Watch it!" she cried, backing away from the poor girl who was wrapping a measuring tape around Sasha's bust.

"I'm so sorry, Sasha. I didn't mean to poke you," she apologized frantically. Santana wrinkled her forehead. When had these girls gotten so demanding and spoiled? Was she like this? It was just a little poke. Sasha probably didn't even feel it.

"Don't let it happen again. Whatever, are we done?" Sasha asked impatiently, "I have to meet my boyfriend. He only has today free before he has to go to Venice with his little brats."

"Boyfriend my ass," sniped Coral. Sasha was "dating" Lawrence Storm, Hollywood's "It" director, which would be perfectly okay if he A) wasn't married with kids, B) twice her age, and C) being used for his Hollywood casting pull. Sasha was trying to get into acting, something every celebrity wanted to do, whether they would admit it or not.

"Yes, Sasha. Good thing you came in, it looks like you've gotten a little big bigger. Have you gained any weight?" asked the assistant. A look of alarm passed Sasha's face, which humored Santana for some reason.

"Why? Does it look like I have?" she asked frantically, shaking the assistant. The assistant could barely shake her head.

"Weren't you gone for a week last month? Did you go and get your boobies pumped like Santana here?" snickered Coral.

"Bitch," Santana muttered. She'd be the first to admit that she had breast implants. She wasn't going to lie about it. And she sure as hell wasn't going to apologize for her breasts. They paid her bills, regardless of how fake they were or how much of a stranger she felt in her own body.

"Slut," Coral smiled.

Slut.

The toxic word used to bother her so much.

_

* * *

She had been called worse._

_Whore._

_Disgrace._

_Second-best._

_So, she didn't know why Rachel's comment had hurt so much. Maybe it was because everyone else in Glee Club had ganged up on her too. Weren't they all supposed to be non-judgmental losers together? She knew she had it better than all the rest of them. She didn't have a baby; she wasn't a paraplegic, etc. So why had Rachel attacked her of all people? _

_Or maybe the real reason was because he had failed to say something in her defense._

_Now, as she cried in the halls, she felt even worse. Brittany was trying to comfort her but was failing, because honestly, Brittany was way too happy to understand. No one understood her and her crazy reasoning for her crazy ways (Because there was a person under all that crazy, really). To make matters worse, he was standing right over there, thirty feet away, not doing anything to make her feel better. Instead, he was pining over that fat chick._

"_Am I a slut? Am I going to end up being a stripper?" she sobbed. Brittany just kept shaking her head, oblivious to the emotional crisis her best friend was going through._

"_How could he just stand there, and not say anything? Tell me, Britt. I am the best thing that ever happened to him, and he just let them walk all over me!" she cried._

"_I don't know, San. Maybe he thought you didn't need anyone to defend you," replied Brittany. That was the truth; she'd built up a reputation for being a tough girl. She didn't need anyone. _

"_But I do," she sobbed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lauren saunter off and she felt a strong urge to go beat the stupid smug look off of Lauren's face._

"_Do you want a lollipop? That always makes me feel better," Brittany offered, stroking her back._

"_No, no. Just go Brittany," Santana barked. Brittany backed off, and turned the corner, leaving Santana to wallow in her own tears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and saw that her mascara was streaking all over. _

_She suddenly felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her slender frame from behind her. She didn't need to turn around to know it was him._

"_Hey," he said. She didn't respond, but instead sniffled dramatically a couple of times, just to let him know what he had done to her._

"_Okay, I deserve that. I'm sorry I didn't say anything," he continued. Her sniffling subsided. He continued to just hold her from behind, in the outskirts of the halls. He didn't try to turn her around, because he knew she was too proud to let him see her tear-stained face._

"_For what it's worth, I don't think you're a slut," he whispered in her ear. It's worth a lot, actually._

_She let him rock her for a few more moments, before shoving him off and walking off without so much as a goodbye. If he wasn't going to be "her man," he didn't get the satisfaction of comforting her.  
_

* * *

She supposed over the years, she'd just built up a little wall against it. Now, she didn't even feel the sting anymore. It was like she turned numb.

"Love you too, Coral," Santana said without flinching, flashing a fake smile of her own.

"Remember that when I fuck your new boyfriend," said Coral.

"He's not her boyfriend," protested Katie.

"Shut it, newbie. No one asked you," Coral replied.

"He's not my boyfriend, just an old friend," Santana remarked.

"People like us don't have old friends," Coral said. The statement couldn't really be classified as a lie.

"I'm nothing like you," Santana said matter-of-factly.

"But aren't you?" said Coral innocently. Was she?

"It doesn't matter, because you better keep your paws off of him, Coral. Besides, you're not his type. He's not big on skank," Santana sneered. The thought of Puck and Coral together made her sick. It wasn't the first time Coral had suggested something like that. She wouldn't have been surprised if Coral actually did try to sleep with Puck, which was why she needed to keep her two lives separate.

"Well, he's with you, isn't he?" Coral asked nicely. Oh, no she didn't. Santana would fight Coral if she had to; it wasn't anything new. Coral would just be on the long list of girls she'd scared away Puck: Rachel Berry, Mercedes, the white rhino chick…

"Girls! Stop fighting. Really, we're a family here. And play nice. What would happen if you slipped up in public and shamed the corporation?" Daniel said, raising his arms. Daniel sighed again, he _really_ didn't get paid enough.

**Question to think about (Dont answer if you dont want, but I LOVE hearing what you think. The answers always make ME think, and its my story!)**

**1) Consider Coral's assertion that she and Santana are alike. Are they or are they not? Is Santana just in denial? **

**So sorry this wasnt a very good chapter, and was kinda filler-y but it needed to be done to advance the story. **

**But REVIEW, PLEASEEEEE!  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Oh my gasp! Look at all those reviews! They were fabulous! You really delivered you guys, and I hope this lives up to your standards:**

Santana dropped a big box on the floor of her apartment and the sound that came out of her could only be characterized as a cross between an "oof" and a "plop." Whatever it was, it was cute. He laughed as she tried to push the box further through the door.

"What?" she snapped. Moving was turning out to be more difficult than she had thought. And why did she even suggest starting after dinnertime? You'd think an ex-soldier would have like, a box of stuff, but no. He had to have 10 boxes, which could still be categorized as measly, she supposed. She really didn't know why she even offered up her apartment as a temporary home for her ex-boyfriend. Anybody else would call her crazy. And neither of them really had friends here, so it was just them. A crazed fan downstairs in the lobby offered to help, but she was too freaked out by his persistent pleas, and moved a little closer towards Puck.

"Nothing, that was just really cute," he replied.

"Oh," she said, pleasantly surprised. She quickly replaced the perpetually annoyed expression on her face with a smug one, another common expression. Santana didn't really do "cute," but whatever.

"So this is it, huh? Home, sweet, home," he said, surveying the modern apartment in front of him. The space was open and quiet; you could practically see the entire apartment in front of him. The ceilings were high and vaulted, with large windows letting in the ambient city light. Everything was either white, black, or some shade in between. The industrial chrome kitchen appliances had a sleek shine to them, one that gave him the impression that it was more for show, and not actual culinary uses. The lamps suspended from the ceiling looked as if they could almost be used as weapons. The dining table and its matching chairs looked like they were made of the least amount of plastic possible without forgoing their actual purpose. Everything was svelte, spotless, sharp. No, Santana Madison did not shop at IKEA.

Needless to say, the apartment was neither "comfy" nor "cozy," but then again, was Santana? It was…cool. It looked more like the showroom for a modern interior designer, not someone's home. Did she even live here?

"It's quiet," he commented.

"Well, it's kind of my little safe place. I like it secluded from everything, you know?"

"No, I totally get it. Do you ever get lonely?"

She thought for a while, before finally deciding on a no. "I'm used to the loneliness."

"Me too."

Then their pseudo-movers came up with the final boxes. She ushered in the doormen she had corralled into carrying the boxes up. "Just dump them on the shag rug," she ordered.

"Sure, Miss Madison. Now if that's all, we have work to get back to," one of the doormen said meekly.

"Yeah, here. Thanks," she muttered, shoving a hundred-dollar bill into his palm. The doorman quickly clasped the money and left before Santana could change her mind. Puck's eyes widened. In high school, the most he would ever have gotten as a "tip" for anything at all would have been like five bucks, tops. Well, the occasional housewife dropped twenty bucks…Now this tool carried a box up five floors…through an elevator…for a hundred bucks? Unbelievable. Santana threw money around like it grew on trees. Maybe for her, it did. He was still unaware of how rich she was.

She noticed his expression and justified her actions with a shrug. "Whatever, I don't carry any other cash. And he needs it more than I do." Puck relented, seeing as it was her apartment, and her money. He couldn't make decisions for her.

"So yeah, here it is. Use whatever you want, I didn't pay for most of it anyways," she said, "Sorry I don't have an extra bed, but the couch converts." She pulled at the black crescent shaped sofa until it popped out into a mattress.

"Don't worry about it, I'm used to sleeping on the floor, remember?" he said.

"Right," she said. The thought of Puck as a soldier always brought a smile to her face. Of course, she knew of all the terrible things he must have gone through in battle, but there was something about a man in a uniform that got her very excited.

"Thanks for doing this; I know we didn't end on the best terms. I appreciate it, San," he said genuinely. It was the first time either of them acknowledged what had happened in the past.

"Of course," she said softly. She looked absolutely beautiful, just in a T-shirt and jeans, with her hair in a messy bun after a night of moving. A moment passed. "I'm gonna tune in for the night. I'll be down the hall in my bedroom if you need anything."

"Sure. Good night," he said, getting up and walking towards her. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Good night," she said, walking down the hall to her bedroom, her bag swinging behind her. A couple minutes later, he heard her shower run. He got ready for bed himself. Then the shower stopped, and he heard the click of a light. She'd crawled into bed. He laid down on the couch, which was surprisingly comfortable for well, being a couch.

Two hours passed, and he continued to stare at the ceiling. The ticking of the abstract clock on her wall was magnified a thousand times. He couldn't sleep. Not because of the PTSD thing though. And not because he felt like a stranger in her home, her life. And certainly not because he was uncomfortable, because he wasn't. It was because Puck had one thing on his mind: Santana. Another hour went by. It wasn't getting any better. Why had she left? Why hadn't he done something? How would things have turned out if they'd just stayed in Lima? They'd probably be married or something, in a volatile destructive relationship with a couple of neglected kids. Maybe it was good they'd spent this time apart. They were both matured, both more responsible. This was getting ridiculous; it was obvious he still cared for her. He had to do something about it.

She was thinking the same thing. She hadn't dropped a grand on this custom Temperpedic, stress-relieving bed for nothing that wasn't working. She imagined what her life would be like if she had just stayed in Lima. No doubt she'd end up like her mother. And god, what could be worse? But was her life here worth it?

Then the door to her room creaked open. Santana stayed absolutely still; she didn't want him to know she was still awake. What could he want at this hour? She was determined to keep up this peacful façade. As far as Puck was concerned, she was going to be the famous supermodel that is so successful that she has absolutely nothing stressful in her life to keep her awake at night. Then he did something so surprising that she had to bite her lip to contain herself and hide her alertness, almost to the point where she tasted blood. He crawled into her bed and laid down right beside her, holding her tightly in his arms. She didn't say anything to him; she didn't even acknowledge his presence. All she did was succumb, and a sense of blissful nostalgia flooded through her. His warm body next to hers felt like coming home.

And soon after, they both fell asleep, just laying there. For him, it was the first time he'd gotten a good night's sleep, completely at rest. And for her, it was the first time she'd felt like nothing was missing.

The next morning was awkward, as expected. They both ignored what had happened the night before, because honestly, what did happen? Nothing. They just slept. In a bed. Together. She got up early, as always, and made coffee with her expensive cappuccino maker, although she really shouldn't have been consuming all those liquid calories. She was sitting at her coffee table, thumbing through this month's Elle, having spotted herself already three times. Once in a Tory Burch spread with Ilario. Yuck. She was waiting to leave for work. She didn't know if she should wake him, or tell him bye or something like that, before dashing out the door as fast as she could - again.

But before she got the chance to leave, he emerged from the bedroom. Sleep was still apparent in his eyes, but he looked as sexy as ever.

"Hey. Did you sleep well?" she asked, gesturing toward the cup of steaming coffee sitting across from her. His eyes lit up towards the pot of sustenance, and he took a seat.

"Yes, I did. What about you?" he asked.

"I slept…perfectly," she said, her coquettish eyes peeking out from the coffee mug she was holding in front of her face.

"Santana," he started.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you leave?" he asked, point-blank. He needed to know if chasing her was a lost cause. Because after last night, he was completely and totally ready to pursue something real with her, something that would end up right.

"Oh. So you want to talk about that…"she said, stalling for time. She wasn't expecting that. So they were talking about that now? Did they really have to?

"It's been a month. Don't you think we should?" he said. They'd put off this crucial conversation for far too long.

"I suppose. You know why I left. I had to. I wouldn't have lasted five more minutes in Lima. There wasn't anything there for me," she said. There, a standard answer. He couldn't blame her for that.

"I was there!" It all sounded like something he'd heard before. She really needed some new reasons.

"We would have gotten sick of each other eventually, Puck, like we always do," she said wistfully.

"You don't know that," he replied. She didn't. In fact, they were doing really well back then. It almost seemed like they were in it for the long run. And she knew, deep down, that maybe he was it for her. Which is why she ran, partially at least. She couldn't be held down by anyone. Nobody could derail her, nobody would stop her. She had to think with her head, not her heart.

"You would have done the same thing," she said firmly, trying to end the conversation. This was rehashing too many memories. She felt scared, and she hated being scared.

"Maybe, but I wouldn't have done it the way you did. We never heard from you again!" he protested.

"That's not true. I sent you a letter!" she exclaimed, her coffee sloshing in her mug.

"Yeah. Once, with 12 tickets to nationals. Perfect for our 11-member team. No "Hey, I'm doing well, how about you?" or "I miss you." Not a single word," he said accusingly. So it was a pathetic comeback. Whatever.

"Well, I'm sorry, okay? It was hard. I didn't know what to tell you. It wasn't like I was living it up, going to hotshot parties and making bank every night. It wasn't like that at all. In fact, it was fucking miserable. What was I going to tell you, after what I had done? Imagine the postcard! Hey, I abandoned you for nothing! Glad you haven't committed suicide already from being stuck in Lima!" she yelled. It felt good, getting all of this out after keeping it in for so long.

Silence.

"Well, I'm glad you got all that out. It seems like you needed it. Oh, and by the way, committing suicide in Lima is redundant," he said smugly. That bastard.

"Smartass," she said sneeringly, calming down. She had hit her climax, and now she was over it again. It was the story of their relationship. Extreme highs and lows, with patches of passiveness in between.

"Maybe it was good what you did, maybe it was worth it. I mean, look at how you turned out. You're a fucking star. And at least I'm not in Lima anymore. Whatever we have now is better than what we could've had together back home," he commented, not sure if he really believed that.

"Yeah. Does this mean you forgive me?" she asked quietly.

"I wasn't aware you were asking, but sure" he said, but his tone convinced her otherwise.

"Okay, well I'm going to work. See you tonight," she said, getting up to put her coffee mug in the sink. She dropped it in, making a heavy clunk sound.

"See you," he said as she walked out the door.

She was distracted at work, and Katie noticed. She still did her job well though, and the pictures turned out amazing. If she was at all disappointed or sad, the average Joe flipping through the Victoria's Secret catalogue wouldn't have noticed.

"What's wrong?" Katie asked during break.

"Nothing," Santana said, blowing her off. Katie gave her a look.

"Okay, fine. We got in our first fight, if you could even call it that. Me and Puck. I think we both agree that everything is my fucking fault, so it's not even an argument," she confessed.

"Well, what was the fight about?" Katie knew that Santana and Puck had a history, but she wasn't completely aware of all the details. She listened intently as Santana filled her in about how she only blamed herself for "ruining his life."

"Oh come on, I'm sure he doesn't blame you. And don't you think you're being a little selfish now too? Surely, _you_ didn't make him join the army. You couldn't have been that important. Sorry, but he made his own decisions, regardless of whatever you did," Katie asserted. It was the second time today Santana hadn't expected what had been said to her. Both comments had come from people who genuinely cared about her, and both were exactly what she needed to hear, even if she didn't want to. So her ego had gotten a little big.

"That's true, but what happened is still because of me. It's funny, because we didn't care half as much about each other as we do now, and we're not even dating. We rarely even talk about anything important. It's like everything we say is so cautious. As if we say one wrong, touchy thing accidentally, everything will fall apart again."

"This was important. It'll be okay," reassured Katie.

And Katie was right, because that night, he once again joined her in bed again in the wee hours of the night, both of them becoming totally at rest. And the night after that. And the night after that.

**So here's so questions to think about, answer if you want (I LOVE READING THESE):**

**1) What is "home"? (Is it a place? Or an experience? Or maybe with a person?) Everyone has one, so think hard!**

**2) Consider the two places Santana has ever lived. Which is more her home: Lima or her suave New York apartment? That is, what do each of these places reveal about where she is in her life?**

**PLEASE REVIEW! We're at 43 now, think we can get to 50? Please and thank you, :)  
**


	9. Chapter 9

_**AN #2 (3/12/11): So Ive revised the flashback part. It was too descriptive and too narrative before, not raw and emotional. How'd I do?**_

**What amazing reviews, you guys. You're fabulous. Especially the ones with the great, insightful answers. And who knew I had readers in Uruguay? Crazy, right? One review made me realize I'd been kind of neglecting the promiscuous sides of Santana and Puck, and I want to assure you its still there. Just understand that because they've grown up a little bit, its not as barging and obvious. But I'm trying to work on it, I guess I was working too hard on trying to maintain Santana's bitchiness and I just forgot that. So thanks, and bear with me, guys.**

Her cell phone blared loudly from the living room, where she had thrown it haphazardly the night before, after a fun night on the town with Puck. It was way too early for anyone to be calling, and she cursed herself for making her ringtone a siren (She'd heard enough of those in Lima Heights Adjacent, anyways). She had a splitting headache, probably from all the random flashing lights on the dance floor last night. Thank god she didn't get so drunk that she slept with someone. Wait, did she? She quickly did a scan of what she was wearing and was relieved to see a pair of boxers (her own, thank God) and a Victoria's Secret T-shirt on her. Not exactly sexy, but whatever.

She muffled her face deeper into Puck's back, trying to block out the annoying wails. That's right; it was their tenth day using this "sleeping arrangement." So far, so good. They enjoyed each other's company, and there was no harm in it. For two lonely people in denial, it was perfect. There was no sharing of emotions, but rather body heat. She wondered what her shrink would say, if she still had one. Probably something about this being completely unhealthy with a person you have so much history with….Whatever, there's a reason Santana fired that batshit lady, especially after she was accused of "running away from her problems." It's better without the feelings; it's always been.

The incessant rings hadn't stopped. He groaned loudly, and she blinked in surprise. She didn't think he would have noticed.

"Get your damn phone," he grunted, rolling over to face her. He appreciated her and everything, but they were good enough friends now for him to be rude.

"Nooo," she whined, "It's too far away." She grabbed onto his midsection and held on tight, as he tried to shake her off the bed. It almost looked like they were wrestling or something.

"Come on Santana, do you really think you can hang on that long?"

"Try me." Of course she would say that. He was on his knees now with the lithe girl wrapped onto his body in weird contortions, holding on for dear life. It was kind of hot…He couldn't differentiate what limb was what, seeing as they were coming from all different angles. He picked himself up and got off the bed, his feet touching the cold hardwood floors. He really didn't want to shake her off anymore, he was afraid she might injure herself. Especially with her job, her body was all she had. (And he hated to admit it, but she was burning him out. Plus, he was sure he looked like an idiot, shaking like one of those apes on Animal Planet that had just come out of the watering hole submerged in water) So instead, he gave one last shimmy, before she fell onto her bed.

"Ow." She landed with a thud, but the smirk on her face revealed that she was amused. "Told you, you couldn't last. Where'd all your stamina go, Puckerman?" He felt strangely turned on by her insults. He'd always been a masochist of sorts.

"I'll just get your phone myself, and then I'll come back to bed." She smiled at the sound of his words. "Bed." It made them sound like those lazy sweatpant couples who never did anything but lounge at home. You just didn't find people like that in her walk of life anymore. He walked out, and found her phone nestled between the couch cushions. The screen claimed that it was "Daniel." Who the fuck was Daniel? He was pretty sure Santana didn't have a boyfriend, because he was pretty sure that if he was dating a supermodel of Santana's caliber, he certainly wouldn't have let her have her ex-boyfriend move in. Then again, a girl like Santana couldn't have been without a boytoy for long.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Santana?" the voice on the other end barked.

"No, Puck," he said slowly, clearly enunciating the syllables. Really, did he sound like Santana?

"Who the fuck are you?" Daniel yelled. Jesus, this guy had serious issues.

"Uh, who are you?" he responded.

"Daniel, her boss, damn it. Who desperately needs to talk to his star. Now please tell me who you are, so when I do get her on the line, I can tell her to fire you. Stupid, incompetent assistants…" Daniel muttered.

"Whoa there, dude. I'm not her assistant. I'm her uh, her uh…" Puck trailed off, searching his mind for the nonexistent word that could define their relationship, before giving up and deciding on "Roommate. I'm her roommate." Safe enough.

"Say no more, darling. I know exactly who are you!" was Daniel's response. In a matter of 90 seconds, the guy had changed his tone entirely. Now he was happy and giddy?

"You do?" Puck was confused. Was she talking about him? Santana actually talking about people who knew her? Gasp!

"Absolutely. I work with celebrities. I know how they are. I, for one, am completely glad you're here, because that means Santana's getting laid. And you know how sexually frustrated girls don't photograph well…" Daniel ranted. What was up with everyone in New York assuming he knew everything about modeling and glamour? But before he could protest, Santana came out of the room.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Your boss," he said, holding the phone out at arm's length. He could hear Daniel's tirade from a distance. Santana's face fell as she picked up the phone.

"What?" she snapped.

"Jeez baby, not even a hello for your favorite boss?" Daniel said.

"Well usually when you call before noon on my day off, it's bad news. So no, you don't get a hello," she said. She was really looking forward to today. She deserved it. She'd had to put up with Coral and Sasha's bickering (again) the entire week as they finished up the Invincible print ads. When did her job become so stressful?

"Right, about that…" Daniel stalled.

"Just say it," she said, rubbing her closed eyes.

"An assistant lost all the photos we took of you and Sasha last week. We'll need both of you to come in and shoot them again," he said diplomatically.

"Really? Oh my fucking god, Daniel. Really? You let an incompetent assistant take my photos and lose them? Now I have to come in and spend ten hours posing half-naked and smiling for you, again?"

Daniel remained silent, waiting out the storm.

"Whatever. Just so you know, you're paying me extra for this. Also, I look like shit, so get your makeup team ready. And, I get the good makeup lady, not Sasha!" Santana demanded. She was on a roll. Puck looked a little scared.

"Okay, absolutely. See you in a bit!" Daniel sing-songed before hanging up. The conversation had been relatively painless, a lot easier than he had expected. Maybe it was because he had to listen to Sasha yell and _cry_ for ten minutes before making her come in.

"So I guess Tacky Tourist Day is off?" Puck asked, looking a little crestfallen. They'd planned a day to explore the city a month ago, but had never found the time to actually go. Even though Santana had lived here for more than a couple of years, she had still never been the Statue of Liberty, the Central Park Zoo, or the Empire State Building. She just never had the time, or interest. They were going to be tacky tourists, embark on an adventure together.

"Yeah, sorry. Rain check? Work first," she declared. She felt a little bad leaving him like this, but honestly, she couldn't rely on Puck. They might be civil now, but who knows? Maybe tomorrow, he would hate her, he had every reason to anyways. Her job? She had that for another couple of months, and she was sure her contract was going to be renewed. It made total sense to pick the one semi-stable thing in her life. Puck would get over it.

"Yup," he said, before going back into the bedroom, even though he knew that Tacky Tourist Day would be postponed again, and again, each time a work commitment came up.

"Look, I'm sorry. I can't help it," she said again, her tone a little exasperated and a little annoyed (at him? Or at her life in general?). So to make it better, she decided to just give him a kiss. Hopefully that would shut him up. She reached up, and went for it. He wasn't surprised. Santana did that stuff all the time. Just a kiss. Still, he was getting a little sick of cuddling. A guy had needs, especially a guy that had just been away from real life for so long. The stupid little spark died out when they parted, and was quickly replaced by the ever-present, average sexual tension that followed the two of them everything. They'd gotten used to always wanting to rip each other's clothes off so much that they were almost immune to the random sexual impulses.

"See you tonight," he said, walking away again. She grabbed her purse and went out the door to work.

"Santana!" Daniel greeted at the door, his arms open wide. She walked past him, ignoring his obligatorily cordial hug. "You too? I don't need another emotional girl today…."

She turned around, and looked her boss straight in the eye. She was sick of catering to his every beck and call. She knew she was good enough now to stand up to him; she didn't need the approval of Victoria's Secret. She wasn't Gisele yet, but she made a couple million a year. She could be the spokesperson for any given company; they were all dying to have her. "Daniel, this needs to stop. I had plans today, and the next time you call me up on a day off, I'll have plans too. I can't work all the time. I have a life." Couldn't a girl just have fun anymore?

"Honey, you work for me. You don't have a life," was his only response. The way he looked at her made her feel disgusted. It was like she was a work mule. As long as she kept cranking out the photos, kept selling the product, Daniel would back her. If she didn't, she'd be cut. His feelings clearly showed in his bipolar attitude towards her.

"Says who," she muttered, before going into hair and makeup. By the time she emerged, her face glowing from the bronzer and her butt caked in ten layers of makeup, she was just sick of everything, again.

"Okay, I've been here two hours and not a single picture has been taken. What the fuck are we waiting for? You're wasting my time here, people." She knew she sounded like a brat, but since she'd put up with this lifestyle devotedly for the last couple of years, she figured she deserved a couple of prima donna antics.

"It's Sasha, Santana. She keeps barfing. She's been in the bathroom the whole time. I sure hope we can edit out the green in her complexion," replied the assistant gluing the bra strap to her shoulder. Santana marched into the bathroom, where she found Sasha hurled over the toilet. She sent a couple of death glares to the assistants who were hovering over Sasha, and they scurried out. She went over to Sasha, and kneeled down in a very unladylike position, even more so in her "uniform."

"Jesus, Sasha. What the hell is up?" Santana had always considered Sasha her first "friend" in the business. But by the time Coral rolled around, Sasha had changed her allegiances.

"Oh my god, Santana. God, I'm so fucked," Sasha cried.

"What? What is it? Please don't tell me you're taking those laxatives again…" It was probably just another attention-whore antic. Sasha only shook her head and looked down towards her abdomen.

"Oh, Sasha. Please tell me you're bulimic." But Santana knew the truth already. "What are you doing to do? What did he say? You've told him, right?" Santana didn't know why she assumed Sasha had already told her babydaddy, especially considering her own…experiences.

"You wanna know what he said? He said it wasn't his," Sasha wailed. So maybe Sasha did genuinely care for Lawrence Storm, instead of just using him for his casting connections.

"Oh, Sasha," Santana said, rubbing Sasha's back.

"I can't do this. I can't give up my career, not when I've just started. If I have this baby, I'm never going to be a movie star. I need to make it in Hollywood. I can't do this forever. What am I going to do in three years when we get too old to model?" Sasha bawled. Santana honestly felt for Sasha; she knew what it was like to hold on to a dream for so long, to want something so bad.

"You can be a mother," Santana gently suggested. That was a terrible idea actually, but she didn't know what else to say.

"Are you serious? I'd be the shittiest mother ever," declared Sasha, her tears drying. She looked Santana straight in the eye, and the dead-on, torn look in her eye was enough to make Santana feel sick too.

_

* * *

The taps of her stiletto boots echoed through the enormous building, and she felt even more like an intruder than before. The vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows, and the dim light luminescing from the dozens of candles that surrounded the pews instantly lightened her spirit, all the while heightening her fear. _

"_Santana. We haven't seen you here in a while. We miss you," Father Joseph said, walking towards her. That was a lie. Were priests supposed to lie? He must have been glad that a sinful harlot like her didn't go to Mass anymore, that she wasn't shaming their town in the name of God anymore.  
_

"_I know, and I'm sorry. I've been busy," she said, staring at her feet. _

"_So what can I do for you, Santana? Do you need to confess your sins, maybe?" he ventured. Of course._

"_I need you to bless me, Father," she said, her voice cracking a little bit. She hadn't expected to be so emotional, but she was asking for something here, begging even. And Santana never asked for anything. Still, she needed his guidance, because she wasn't sure if she could go through with it without his blessing. Without his strength, she wouldn't have the reassurance that she wouldn't feel guilty about making this decision later on._

"_Oh? Why is that?" he asked._

_She didn't know how to tell him. He would be so disappointed. How do you tell someone you've known since you were five something like this, much less a priest? How do you tell someone you're pregnant and don't want to be? _

_She couldn't even muster up the courage to tell Puck. She wasn't going to bother him and fuck up their chance together again. She was just going to take care it. He would never have to know._

"_Father, I…I…" she started, and the tears that were threatening to burst trickled slowly down her cheek. She couldn't put into words her fears, because if she said them out loud, that would mean they were true. Instead, she grabbed his hand and placed it on her abdomen. "I can't…I can't be a mother. Not now, maybe not ever. So I need your blessing to do what's best for me and this child," she sobbed. The little gasp the Father made let her know that he understood exactly what she was talking about, and he quickly retracted his hand. But he couldn't understand her reasoning. How could he? _

"_Santana. I'm afraid I can't bless you," he said finally. Oh god, oh god, oh god. She was really pregnant. There was really a child inside her. Her child. His child. Their child.  
_

"_Okay," she accepted, swallowing her disappointment. She turned around and felt the burden of her responsibilities fall onto her. Father Joseph grabbed her wrist._

"_Santana. If your heart is in the right place, then you already have His blessing," he said calmly. His words settled her frantic heart a little bit, but did nothing for the difficult choices that were whizzing through her mind. _

_She walked out of the church the same way she came in, and took one last look before getting into the car. What the fuck was she going to do now?_

_Pray, that's what._

* * *

Santana shook her head, partly to reassure Sasha, but mainly to wipe away the memory. There, done. She could go back to her daily activities now, with her conscious clean. She grabbed the bottom of Evian on the sink counter, and pulled herself up.

"Come on, Sasha. Let's get back to work." And they did, because they were professionals.

Even after eight hours of shooting, she wasn't tired. But she was tired of her job. Maybe, she even truly hated it for the first time. Resented it. It had taken away everything. What she really needed was to let the built-up tension out. She was stressed and aggravated about everything: work, the sixteen different whiny fan letters she'd gotten that day…and Puck. She knew exactly what she needed, what she wanted, whether she would admit it.

She marched through the door and found him on the couch, channel surfing through some cheaply produced porn channels on her satellite television.

"Ew, that's my pay-per-view you're using," she said.

"Does it look like I have anything better to do?" he justified in a monotone voice, without looking up.

"I have an idea," she asserted, walking in front of him, blocking his view with her silhouette.

"Yeah?" his eyes just averted to the side to catch a glimpse of the third "Busty Cop." She rolled her eyes; it was typical of him. But she was getting antsy. She had a little noise with her throat, finally getting his attention. When he looked up she had already taken off her dress (She was very good at taking off her clothes in record time), revealing the new lacy Invincible bra and panty set she swiped from work on the way out. His reaction was priceless. Yup, that got his attention.

"I think I look better than those bimbos, no?" she asked, wide-eyed. Was she serious? She was an underwear model, for God's sake. Whenever people thought of Santana, they automatically thought sexy right away. It was like how you never word "profusely" without "sweating" before it. She looked good, really good. Yes, he'd seen it all before (a long time before nonetheless), but there was a newness, a freshness, to her. Just looking at her got him more excited than two hours of porn-surfing.

"Are you fucking with me? Because if you are, Santana, you better stop, so help me God." Jesus, would he stop talking and just have her already?

"Does it look like I am?" She sashayed a little closer to him, and nudged the off-button on her TV with her toe on the way over. She welcomed herself onto his lap (because she'd always been a proactive doer herself), and tugged on his shirt. "Come on, take me to bed, Puck."

How could he argue with that?

She should have felt guilty using him, and he should have felt cheap for allowing her to. But neither did, because for the two of them, their pleasure felt so natural, so inherent, and more importantly, so inevitable.

**So they've done the deed! It's about time, no? Looks like the story is finally starting to pick up, aho!**

**So questions, answer if you'd like. I love hearing your interpretations and Im always pleasantly shocked at how varied they are. **

**1) Consider this statement: **_She walked out of the church the same way she came in. _**What is the more significant connotation of this?**

**2) Santana sure likes to skip over important parts of a relationship (like maybe talking about a pregnancy, why she left, or unresolved feelings) and just keep things to herself in order to prevent conflict and keep the relationship "going." True, it might make the relationship last longer, but based on what foundation? How do you think this will come back and bite her in the ass? Ha, sorry that wasnt eloquent at all.  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**The story's finally picking up! Lots of development in this chapter, so its kind of long! And can I just say, your reviews are amazing? My usual reviewers (Jennie, Caitlyn, Isilady, etc-Sorry if I forgot anyone!) are so motivating. When I get their reviews for each chapter, I'm like Oh! I'm doing something right! It's like an internal calendar almost, when I get their reviews, I know its time to update. So they're pretty awesome. And everyone else, too! One person told me I should be an English teacher. WOW! Thanks to everyone for the overwhelming response. So enjoy!**

Santana Madison had fun last night. Yes, indeed, she had lots and lots of fun. In fact, it was the most fun she could remember having ever since she became a model. It could maybe even be categorized as one of the "best nights of her life." But of course, all good things came to an end…temporarily. She woke up groggily, as she felt a ray of light warm her face. She opened her eyes and squinted at the sunshine coming from the windows across from her bed. That was weird; she never opened those curtains. She turned rolled over and her face collided with the leg of her now-lover (She could call him that now, right? Since they had sex and everything?). She could get used to this, waking up every morning with someone else beside her, especially when that person was Puck. It felt like her life had been given a jumpstart again, a change in her mundane routine of work, work, work.

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted. He was sitting upright, his back leaning against the headboard. He looked as if he was in the midst of deep thought.

"How long have you been sitting there?" she asked, sitting up and scooting back to join him. She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the stickiness of dried sweat. She curled up and hugged her legs.

"I don't know, twenty minutes?" he said.

"Oh. Whatcha thinking about?" she asked.

"Nothing much," he said, although he had clearly been thinking about something important before she woke up.

"Is it about last night? Do you regret it?"

"No, and no. Like I said, it's nothing much."

"Really? You just had the most amazing sex, and you're thinking about 'nothing much'?" she nudged. Shit, why did she say that? Did she want him to think she was incapable of having a fabulous sex life without him? She didn't want to seem needy and attached already, and feed his bulging ego at the same time.

"Most amazing sex, huh? Is that what you're thinking about?" he teased. Yup, she would never hear the end of this.

"Oh, shut up," she said, punching him lightly in the stomach…God, those abs were amazing…."No really, what were you thinking about? I want to know, I'd like to think that I'm a part of your life now, so I honestly want to know what goes through that nonexistent brain of yours."

"Okay, I was thinking about my buddy Eddie, from the service," he said somberly. Oh, maybe she shouldn't have asked. There was her stupid foot getting in her mouth again. He hadn't been out of the military long, but Santana knew he didn't really like to talk about it.

"Yeah? You wanna talk about it?" she prodded. God, she sounded so pathetic.

"Would you look at that? A little bit of love and Santana Lopez turns into a chick with feelings and stuff," he announced. She knew he was changing the subject, but she ignored it because of the racing thoughts going through her mind. He said "love." He just described them as "love." Obviously he didn't mean it that way, he meant "lovin'" or "sex." Still, none of her justifications calmed her temporary hummingbird heartbeat.

"Yeah, yeah. I wanna hear all about him!" she said enthusiastically. She hadn't heard much about his friends, although she came home everyday with a story about how Katie "said the cutest newbie thing today."

"Well, today is the third anniversary of the day I saved his life," Puck started. She didn't know how to respond, but she was glad she didn't have to because he continued. "We were being attacked—are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes," she affirmed. Although she wasn't entirely sure she did. But if this was going to work out between the two of them, she needed to be a part of his life. No secrets. Wow, ironic much?

"And it was an ambush, practically. And I saw my two buddies, Hal and Eddie, get hit and go down," a little gasp escaped her lips, "Me and these guys, we were tight. So I ran back to grab them. And Hal just has a bullet in his leg, so he couldn't move. But Eddie? Man, he was looking pretty bad. So I tried to get them both, but I couldn't. So Hal told me—told me," he stopped. It was harder than he thought, talking about this. She rubbed little circles on his biceps, a sign of reassurance.

"To just take Ed, because he was going to bleed out and die right there on the battlefield. So I told Hal to sit tight, and I'd come back. I took Eddie out, left him with the medical unit, and I guess and saved his life," he finished, even though that wasn't really the end.

"And Hal?" she asked gently. Santana was an expert with intuition. She knew when anything was up. And the both of them were hardly open, sharing people. She would have to force it out of him.

"He, uhm, I went back, and I saw him get shot by another soldier, not one of ours of course. He didn't make it," he said, looking away. She let out another gasp. Of course, she knew he'd been a soldier, and she knew that soldiers went to war. And that in wars, bad things happened. But the actual implication of those statements hadn't hit her until now. War was serious shit, and it had happened to her man. He had saved another man, while he watched another be killed. It made all the petty shit that went on in her own high-strung life seem trivial.

"Oh my god," she said, repeating it slowly.

"I tried, I tried, San. I tried to get them both," he said stoically, masking his emotion.

"Oh, Puck. It's not your fault. You couldn't possibly have gotten all three of you guys out of there alive. You saved Eddie, right? That's something. Something really big, really heroic. You're a hero," she said, reaching up to give him a soft kiss.

"I'm not a hero, Santana. I'm just an army brat."

"That's heroic in itself," she urged.

"You know, people used to care so much more about war. Like in the World Wars or whatever, war was a nationwide effort. Everyone chipped in to support the troops. Now, no one gives a shit. They're all too busy with their everyday lives to realize there is a fucking war going on," he continued. He was really on a roll. He sounded so educated, so worldly. Nothing like the ignorant teenager that used to skip class for the hell of it. This was a topic he was passionate about, that he could really argue for.

"And those who do know, don't even know the half of it. They probably think it's just random guys running around with random guns. But it's not. The military is serious stuff. It's like genius technology, satellites and stuff," he went on. Wait, it wasn't? So it wasn't like Forrest Gump? She suddenly felt ashamed to be so ignorant of the world she lived in, but wasn't really a part of.

So instead she just said, "Yeah, I totally get it. Like people think modeling is looking pretty, but it's not. It's hard work to make a materialistic thing into an image, a fantasy." Actually, it was nothing like that. She sounded incredibly shallow. Bombs and bras? Uh, no. "Oh my god, I sound so stupid right now. I'm sorry if that was insensitive."

He laughed, "It was a little, but it's okay. I mean, just because you don't support the reason for the war doesn't mean you can't support the troops. Either way, people are fucking dying for you." The conversation the two of them were carrying was the most intellectual one they'd ever had and it left the both of them with a sense of accomplishment.

"Of course. I really don't want to go, but I have to. We're filming the television commercial today," she said, crawling out of bed begrudgingly. He pulled up back and initiated another kiss, which turned into an impromptu make-out session. She pulled away a little after, and said "Okay, I really need to get in the shower. What are you going to do today?"

He shrugged. "The same. Loiter around your place, look for incriminating dirt to sell to the paparazzi." She swatted him playfully.

"At that rate, maybe I won't come home for lunch after all," she bitched.

"Lunch, huh?" he suggested, wagging his eyebrows.

"Lunch," she said, just as suggestively, "Okay, gotta get up now." She stood up, and found herself wobbling, struggling to keep the balance between her legs. She shot him a accusatory look over her shoulder, and he just smirked. She could practically feel his ego swelling up like a balloon.

As she left, he actually wondered what he would do. He could count on a thank-you call from Eddie, an annual thing since he was discharged from the service. Instead, he just got up, and decided to start reading a book from Santana's vast collection. He had to sift through a couple racks of paperback romance novels before plucking a hardback copy of _Spring Awakening_. She'd once told him it was his kind of play, a long long time ago, back when they were different people. When she emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, she raised an eyebrow at the sight of Puck reading, but quickly slipped out the door as to not disturb him.

She got to work a little bit later than usual, and instead of the standard green screen, there was a full-on, decorated set. It was jungle-esque, with lush vines everywhere, but storm clouds on the backdrop. The entire setup looked tacky and distasteful. She almost preferred the scenes where they were just against a bland background (as to showcase their bodies, bras, and most importantly, boobs), making weird facial expressions to techno Eurotrash music.

"Girls, as you have noticed, we're taking a new creative direction this season. The bra, of course is called the Invincible, meaning that it really needs to be. So the theme is military," Daniel lauded, walking through the door.

"What?" Santana gaped. Was he serious?

"Picture this. The four of you girls, dressed in the safari, with nothing but the bra on of course, and a helmet. Then bullets come flying out of every which direction, and you all just strut off untouched. Santana, my little star baby, then at the end of the faux-runway, look into the camera, give one your demure stares, and say 'It's invincible.' Done! What do you girls think?" Daniel finished enthusiastically. He felt very proud of this concept.

Coral was texting, drinking a Master Cleanse shake through a straw, and managing to look bored at the same time. She shrugged, indifferent.

Sasha looked horrified. "That is the most politically incorrect, offensive thing I have ever heard, and I'm from the ghetto." It was true; Santana had been subject to many hateful, ignorant things as a result of Sue Sylvester's numerous over-the-top cheerleading routines and comments, but this one took the fucking cake. Daniel's blatant disrespect made her feel a little better about how stupid she sounded this morning, but she knew this was wrong on every level.

Katie was at a loss for words. Santana, however, never lost her voice.

"Are you an idiot? There's a fucking war going on! People are dying!" she hissed.

"What? Santana, that's the point. It's going to appeal to lonely army wives, to people who want to feel connected to the troops," Daniel said halfheartedly.

"So buying an indestructible bra is going to save a life? There's no way I'm saying that line," she snapped. She knew she was the star, but she couldn't just back out of the commercial. Plus, HQ would never change it completely; they were already in the final stages of the campaign.

"But you're the face of this bra!" Daniel protested. Santana sounded ridiculous, this was an amazing opportunity. A full-frontal camera shot, of her face!

"So let Coral do it. Like I said, there's no way I'm saying that. And just so you know, it's not really invincible. Ten minutes in last night, and it was already bent out of shape," Santana said, not backing down. Coral and Sasha snickered. Daniel sighed; he had worked with her long enough to know that she could be a stubborn bitch for as long as she needed, so he relented.

"Fine," he gave in. Coral finally looked up, her face lit up. They spent the next few hours, shooting the same scenes over and over, because Daniel claimed it didn't look authentic enough. No, really?

Meanwhile, Puck was at her apartment, still thumbing through _Spring Awakening_. This was racy shit, and he was only through Act II (He was a slow reader, okay?). But then he heard his cell phone buzz. He saw that is was Eddie, ready to thank him for saving his life again. A part of Puck was glad that he had friends to talk to still, but the other part wanted Eddie to just stop bringing it up again.

"Hey, man," Puck answered, putting down the book.

"Puckerman! How are you doing?" Eddie said on the other line.

"Good, good. How's Minnie and the kids?"

"Great, got another on the way!" Puck felt a little bit envious of Eddie's idyllic life. Small town, wife and kids, spending everyday just fishing on the lake, with no worries at all about what the fuck he was doing with his life.

"That's awesome, man. Congratulations," Puck responded sincerely.

"How's life been treating you? I heard you got discharged for beating in some guy's face."

"Something like that."

"Where are you? You back in Ohio?"

"No, I'm in New York."

"New York! Wow! What for?"

Puck shrugged, then realized Eddie couldn't see his nonchalant gesture. "Staying with an old friend, just figuring out life, you know?"

"Old friend, huh? Got yourself a lady now?" Eddie relented.

"Yup." He felt a surge of pride, they weren't "dating" or "exclusive" but when had they ever? They operated much better like this. They had a real relationship, and he knew he loved her. In time, it would all come together. He was sure of it.

"What's she like? Which celebrity does she look like?" Eddie asked. Eddie had known Puck a long time, and he was glad his buddy had found a companion, because God knew Puck needed one.

"You know Santana Madison, the supermodel?" He felt funny just saying that.

"Ha! You're telling me your new girlfriend looks like Santana Madison?" Eddie exclaimed in disbelief.

"No, I'm telling you she _is_ Santana Madison," Puck said proudly. He let Eddie's comment about Santana being his girlfriend slide; he liked the way that sounded better anyway.

"No fucking way. You're shitting me, how did you meet her?" Eddie shouted. Puck chuckled.

"I'm not shitting you, man. She's from Lima. Old friends, we went to high school together," Puck said.

"Wow, I don't know how you of all people, the biggest asswipe in all of America scored a total hottie like Santana Madison. Who knew she was from a cowtown too?" Eddie said, astounded.

"Well, you wouldn't be able to tell just looking at her. But she's still my girl."

Eddie was a little bit worried for his pal. Minnie was always reading those tabloids that talked about how celebrities always dated people for a total of like six days, before dumping them and moving on to the next big thing. "For now. No way you can keep up with her kind of lifestyle. She's a supermodel, and we're just all-American boys. You might have her now, but what about next month? You're going to lose her."

_

* * *

He watched the cars on the" interstate" drive by, not that many cars willingly passed through Lima, Ohio. Life was so fucked up right now, and he needed a break. He was going to have a daughter. And he might not ever see her, because Quinn was being a bitch, as usual. Finn wasn't speaking to him, and to be honest, he didn't have many friends despite being Puckasaurus._

_He looked around, and saw that small towns in middle America weren't the rustic, cozy towns you saw in calendars. At least not Lima. There were no rolling hills, no bursts of sunshine, no pleasant people. In fact, all he saw were telephone poles and dead grass that the town couldn't afford to water. He saw a red convertible pull up beside his truck. He had expected to be alone, but she had known where he was. The skinny girl got out of her mother's car and walked over to him, hopping up to sit next to him on the edge of his truck. Neither of them acknowledged each other's presence._

"_Mama Lopez finally let you take the car again?" he commented, breaking the silence._

"_Yeah, no thanks to you," she snapped. Her mother had taken back car privileges when she found a pair of Santana's panties tucked under the seat cushions. She had bitched to him for a month about that._

"_Does Ryan know you're here?" he asked solemnly. She was "dating" Ryan Taylor, the center for their basketball team. The guy was okay at basketball, but he was a total douche. He'd confronted Santana about it one day, and she'd just glared at him. She was sick of waiting for him to get his own act together, apparently. The Mercedes thing was the last straw._

"_Why does it matter?" she asked. It didn't at all. Ryan was just Ryan. Puck was….more. He let it rest._

_A green semi whizzed by, huffing up a miasma of dust. She looked down, and the white of her cheerleading sneakers were thinly coated in brown specks._

"_I don't think Quinn is going to keep her," he confided. They both stared forward, squinting at the sight of their little town in the distance._

"_No shit, Sherlock," she deadpanned. She was sick of Quinn's baby drama. So what if she was head Cheerio now? She still had to be nice to Quinn and pretend like she didn't give a shit that she was pregnant with his baby. It wasn't worth it._

"_What do you think I should do?"_

"_There's nothing you can do."_

_Silence. A chair fell off the roof of a beige sedan driving by and tumbled off the roads onto the grass. A family was either moving in or out. Suckers. Santana hoped for their sake that they were leaving this shithole. But if they were just moving in, welcome to Lima! Now you're stuck here forever like the rest of us! _

"_I slept with Finn," she admitted. She didn't know why she said it out loud. Maybe she just wanted to hear herself say it, or hear what he would say._

"_Huh," he said, eyes empty. It was not a clarifying comment; he knew exactly what she said. But he was just too tired of everything to comment on her life. His lack of emotion jerked at her insides. That's it. If he was done with her, fine. __She was going to be done with him. __Why did she bother to come when she had Ryan waiting for her at Breadstix? She knew better than that. Why did she bother to care anymore at all? She got up again and walked towards her car. _

"_Wait, Santana!" he called out. Now he was awake. She didn't stop. It wasn't that he didn't care about her anymore, it's just he didn't care about anything really. He had enough on his mind as it was. He was losing her, he knew it. But he was too stressed to do anything about it._

_With a pregnant babymama who hated him, what could he do?_

* * *

"Not this time. We fucked it up in high school when we were just stupid kids, but this is it. I know it, Eddie. This is the real stuff now."

"Well, I'm happy for you then. If she's that important to you."

"She is."

"Then that's that. Listen, thanks for saving my life. You're a true pal," Eddie started, with his ceremonial mushy speech. Oh god.

"No Ed, don't even mention it. It was nothing," Puck protested.

"No it wasn't nothing. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have everything I have now. Remember the day I got sent home? Remember how I said if I made it big, I would pay you back one way or another?"

"I remember. Why?" Puck had only agreed to that on that day because Eddie was slightly delirious from the pain meds, and the guy was going home.

"Well, it's time to pay you back. I hit gold with the stock market. And—"

"No, Eddie. Stop it. You don't have to do that, please." Would Eddie just let it go? He hadn't done anything extraordinary, so he didn't need any prizes or rewards.

"No, you stop it. I'm wiring you 250,000 right now. I know it's not very personal or sentimental, but it's the best I can do," Eddie started.

"What? 250k? You have a baby coming, keep it Ed. Don't sweat it, I don't need that kind of money," Puck objected.

"Yes, you do. Minnie and I talked about it. You're probably just sitting on your ass all day. You have a woman to support now. Your pension can't be that much, and if you're as serious about Santana as you say you are, you'll take this money. Be a man, Puckerman," Eddie forced. Deep down, Puck knew Eddie was right. He was the man, he couldn't just mooch off Santana forever.

"All right, fine. Thank you. You're too generous."

"No, thank you."

"But you know I'm only taking it because I love her so much"

"I know"

**Lots of developments in the story and relationship, no? I loved that flashback scene. I thought the setting was really beautiful.  
**

**Questions: Answer if you'd like, but I love hearing the responses! And I love suggestions for the story too.  
**

**1) So flashback Puck wants to care about Santana but he can't right then because he has a million other things to worry about. Does this perpetual negligence contribute more to their downfall or is it Santana's abandonment later on?  
**

**2) There is a significant wealth/status/etc rift between Puck and Santana. How does this affect their relationship, now and in the future? How do you feel about Puck taking the money because he feels he's obligated to "support" her?**

**Review! Rate it even if you hate it! God, I need to stop using so many exclamation marks...**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks for all the fab reviews, as always. I heard from some new people, and thats always cool! But a few people commented on Santanas abortion, and I just wanted to clarify. When did I say that? Because I didnt mean to reveal ANY details about that. So Santana may or may not have aborted her unborn child. I'll let you guys ponder that, but in the meantime...**

She went back to work later that day after lunch…rejuvenated. She'd never really been one for daytime sex. Too much natural light and raw emotion; not enough concealing darkness. But it was only after that day that Santana had realized she'd truly been missing out. It was indeed much better with feelings, much better with eye contact even. Sure it was a bitch coming back to work early after an extended, unauthorized break (Daniel didn't like girls going out for lunch because it meant reapplication of all makeup, again). But it was a nice little day-cation.

She was in the backroom, getting ready to change back into the Invincible bra and panty set she was modeling. The make-up artist was crouched between her legs, yelling at her to stay still because apparently applying cover-up between her legs was more difficult than one would think. Coral, Sasha, and Katie sat across from her, finishing their takeout Bento boxes. Coral and Sasha were snickering, again. But it was only after a few minutes that Santana realized they were snickering at _her_. She whipped her head around and gave them her signature WTF face. "What?"

"Nothing," Katie said quickly, trying to avoid another blowup between the divas.

"No, what?" Santana asked. If people were going to talk shit about her, fine. She knew what people said about her; she wasn't stupid. At least it proved she was actually somebody worth gossiping about. She just wished people had the balls to say it to her face.

"Santana, honey," Sasha started in her honey smooth voice, drawling out the last syllables. Santana had no idea why Sasha was being such a bitch to her; she hadn't revealed Sasha's news to anyone.

But Coral interrupted her before she could finish. "If you're gonna go home for lunch, make sure you come back with the same pair of panties on." And with that, the two of them burst into a fit of giggles again, high-fiving each other over edamame and coconut water.

She looked down. Shit! She was wearing a simple black pair of bikini-briefs this morning, and now she had on some plaid boy shorts. Right. She would have to remember that one next time. Santana kept her composure, because she was naturally elegant, of course. Like seriously, she was convinced she was a European princess in a past life, if not Audrey Hepburn or Brigitte Bardot.

"Well ladies, I'm glad you're just so very intuitive. And you know what? I'm not going to say anything about it. I'm not even going to rub it in your faces. Because the sex I'm having is so amazing, that it doesn't need any justification. Not a single bit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a commercial to shoot," she said, her voice dripping in false pleasantness.

They'd finished all of the close-ups at the end of the day, but Daniel was unhappy with the wider shots. He was seriously reconsidering this whole military theme; it wasn't realistic enough. It was almost like little girls playing dress-up, which was when he had an epiphany. He needed back-up studs, soldiers who would just be soldiers in the background as his girls strutted, selling the product. He gathered them around.

"Girls, as you may have noticed, the video is looking very disjointed at this point. We have 28 seconds to sell a bra, and make it look convincing," Daniel started. Santana rolled her eyes at the irony, before remembering that her constant eye-rolling used to annoy the hell out of Quinn Fabray. And at that point, she immediately stopped because she didn't want to be associated with that back-stabbing bitch in any way. But honest to God, people took this way too seriously. It's just a bra, people! Who cares? It's what's underneath that really mattered. She'd spent her high school years in ugly-ass Target push-up bras with stupid little heart patterns on them, and she got by just fine.

"Which is why we need real soldiers by tomorrow," he declared. Coral smiled devilishly, her foxlike face looking more devious than normal. Santana's mouth dropped open.

"Of course, I mean not real soldiers. Just ones that look real, you know?" he sighed.

"Oh, totally. Get the models from Ford; they're the best," Sasha pointed out.

"No, those guys look too model-y. We need some more buff, not so indie looking guys," Coral added.

"Yes! Yes!" Daniel squealed. What a notion. Victoria's Secret Angels working together to develop a concept for the company. He could see the headlines now, what a great PR stunt.

"What about Santana's new boyfriend? He looks like he could be in the military," Coral suggested. Was this girl serious? It was like she always knew exactly what to say to push Santana's buttons.

"You leave him out of this," she growled, surprising herself and her coworkers.

"Oh, okay," Coral said sassily, throwing her hands in the air as if she were surrendering (she wasn't), "Someone's touchy."

"Actually, Coral. In case you didn't know, Noah was actually a real soldier. And not a 'real' one from the talent agency down the block. But a real one, as in he went overseas and saved lives to protect your sorry ass back here. And I don't think he'd want anything to do with this," Santana snuffed.

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to ask," Katie quipped, surprising everyone even more than Santana's outburst. Santana glared at Katie (a first in their friendship), as to ask "How could you?"

"You're the one who's always worrying that he's going to get bored of doing nothing all day. And just because you're in this commercial doesn't mean you have to support the reasoning behind it, I mean look at you. Plus, I'm sure Daniel would pay him big bucks," Katie reasoned. And she hated to admit it, but Santana did see a point there. Katie could be right. It really didn't hurt to ask. What's the worst that could happen? Puck saying no?

She came home that night to the sound of Puck's smoky singing voice. She followed it, peering down the hallways before realizing it was coming from her shower. She felt the urge to just strip down and jump into the shower with him, but she didn't want to ruin the melodious harmony of his words. Instead, she silently leaned her head against the cold of the shower door, and listened. Puck was so absorbed that he didn't notice her presence on the other side of the foggy glass.

"_Just a small town girl/Living in a lonely world/She took the midnight train going anywhere_"

It took all that she had to resist singing along. Instead she rubbed her bare foot up and down her calf, trying to hold back the song in her.

"_Just a city boy/Born and raised in south Detroit/He took the midnight train going anywhere_"

It was coming up. Their part, that is. The one they had spent hours practicing, making sure that she wouldn't fuck it up for their first ever "real" competition. Because they both knew he was the natural born performer between the two of them. She was just the straggling groupie who pretended she didn't give a shit about Glee Club. Well, the fact that she was a model and not a Lima Loser anymore proved that maybe, she didn't.

_

* * *

Santana really didn't like interruptions, especially when she was in the middle of something really important. And getting off with Puck was considered important. It was all about the priorities. It was the most action she was getting in a week, and any time with him as of right now was sacrosanct. An opportunity not to be wasted. She swung open the front door in a quiet rage, the wind from the outdoors whipping the sweat-licked hairs off her face. _

"_What do you want?" she snapped. No need for salutations, she sure as hell wasn't going to invite the visitor in. Didn't her Martha Stewart-idolizing mother ever teach her not to drop by unannounced? _

"_I need to talk to Puck," the other girl announced, in her high and mighty, perfect diction. _

"_He's not here," Santana said quickly, getting ready to shut the door. Quinn Fabray could go fuck herself, at least she couldn't get pregnant that way. But Quinn stuck her foot in the doorway._

"_Yes. He. Is," Quinn said, slowly enunciating the syllables, as if Santana were a child or a non-English speaking McDonald's worker._

"_Says who?" _

_Quinn only raised an eyebrow at Santana's attire. Santana's three-sizes-too-small schoolgirl outfit was a dead giveaway that Puck was here. Quinn knew they weren't practicing for Regionals. How many times did you have to sing four lines before you got it right? _

"_Look, it's important," Quinn said, stoking her swollen belly. Bitch. She always had to rub it in. _

"_Santana? What's taking so long?" Puck yelled from the other room. Quinn blinked sweetly and held her expectant gaze. She waited for Puck to come out looking for Santana, and in a minute of two, he did, fully dressed. Fuck, Santana thought. He was gone._

"_Quinn? What are you doing here?" Puck asked. His tone made him sound like a kid caught stealing in a candy store. Santana was irate, because he sure as hell wasn't complaining five minutes ago. Hell to the no, Santana wasn't some guilty pleasure. She was the real deal._

"_I'm going to a doctor's appointment. I was wondering if you wanted to come with, but it looks like you're busy," Quinn said, twirling a blonde tendril. Bitch. Quinn knew she had Puck right where she wanted, she knew he would go with her. He would do anything for that bastard child, but now she was just dragging it out for show. _

"_No, no. I'm good. Let me grab my coat," he said quickly, running into the other room. He rushed out a minute later, ready to go. _

"_Later, Santana," he mumbled before running out the door. He didn't so much as look at her. But Quinn gave her a good, long stare. She waved goodbye, her French-tipped fingers fluttering. And then they were gone, and Santana was the one who looked ridiculous standing alone in the doorway in her skanky costume, not the pregnant teenage Christian girl or the mohawked juvenile delinquent._

_Santana was the smart one; she took her birth control pills everyday so she wouldn't end up being a statistic. Quinn was the stupid one who didn't and ended up pregnant. So how was it that Quinn got everything? As long as Quinn had his freaking kid in there (and maybe even afterwards), Santana couldn't even compete. _

_Maybe Quinn wasn't as stupid as she thought._

* * *

"_A singer in a smoky room_"

She couldn't hold back anymore. She ripped off her clothes in record time, and started to sing.

"_The smell of wine and cheap perfume_" Her voice was shaky at first, because she never really sung anymore, but it was there. It hadn't died out, like the rest of her old self. She was surprised she could even reach those notes, and he was surprised at the voice coming from outside the steamy shower. She swung open the door, and walked into the wide shower, pressing herself up against him.

He smiled at her, not because she was glistening wet, naked, and maybe horny, but because he recognized the musicality coming from her. Further proof that Santana Lopez was still inside.

"Hey," he said, "Welcome home." He dropped a kiss on her neck.

"You're missing your cue," she pointed out. Right.

"_For a smile, they can share the night/It goes on and on and on and on_," they continued. It was cute and stupid, but so what? A little mini-concert for the myriad of beauty products resting on the ledge. At the end of the song, she collapsed in a fit of giggles and slammed her soapy body into his, sending a cloud of bubbles flying everywhere.

"That was fun," she said, still coming down from her music high.

"Yeah," he said. She sounded good, really good.

"Hm, I miss singing more than I thought I would," she pondered, as the nozzle above her soaked her hair.

"How come you don't sing anymore?" That wasn't a completely accurate statement. He'd walked in on her occasionally humming and sometimes even softly harmonizing a couple of times. But she'd never belted anything out, that was for certain. And when she had finally noticed his presence, she had automatically stopped and went back to stirring pasta sauce on the stove or flipping through Cosmo or whatever.

She shrugged. "No one to sing for."

"You don't need an audience to sing."

"I do."

"Anything exciting happen today?" he asked, changing the subject before turning her around to dump some of her expensive shampoo in her hair.

"Nah. Oh, wait. You'll love this, it's ridiculous. They're doing an army-inspired commercial cause the bra is invincible or whatever. And we have to wear these gaudy helmets and pretend to be soldiers as we're pelted with bullets. And now Daniel wants to cast some male soldiers to stand in the background, and he wanted me to ask you. Isn't that hilarious?" she casually added, massaging her scalp with her sudsy fingers.

"Well, you told him hell no for me, right?" Santana was right; it was ridiculous on every level. But it wasn't hilarious, not a single bit.

"I said I'd ask," she replied, moving out of the direct stream of the nozzle to let Puck have some hot water.

"Why would you even think that I would consider it for a second?" he asked, slightly angry.

"Jeez, it's not like anyone is forcing you to do it. Just say no," she said, a pissy tone in her voice as some of the shampoo dripped into her eyes.

"You knew I would say no in a heartbeat, but you didn't say anything. I thought we were going somewhere with this, Santana," Puck said, putting down the bar of soap in his hands.

"We are. I just thought since you just sit around all day doing absolutely nothing, you might want something to do for the next few days," she said. Why was he annoyed with her? She didn't do anything wrong; she was doing him a favor. She wrung the water out of her hair, twisting it into a knot.

"Well, golly. Thanks for the concern, Santana. Thanks for remembering the little people," he said sarcastically, opening the shower door to get out. At this point, he was no longer annoyed at Santana for not saying no for him, but once he started, he couldn't stop. He was pissed, at her, and for more than the commercial. Now was a good enough time as ever to bring up all the little things that had bothered him in the recent weeks that he had chose to keep to himself for fear of ruining their so-far-so-good relationship.

"Oh my god, will you stop for one second?" she lamented, following him out, even though her body was still covered in soap, "What is your problem?"

He turned around, wrapping a towel around himself. "My problem is that I'm going through a quarter-life crisis or something, and you can't even be bothered to notice," he accused.

"Whoa, hold up. What the fuck did _I_ do?" You know, besides giving him a place to live and sex and everything…

"You're so busy with your trivial life that you haven't noticed that I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing with mine. I am 28 years old. I don't have a college degree, career skills, or a steady income. What am I going to do the rest of my life, while you rush off every morning to your seven-figure salary job?" he yelled. She was leaving him behind, again.

"That's not fair. You know how important my work is to me!" she yelled back.

"I know, I know. Santana Madison, supermodel extraordinaire, can't even stop working for five seconds to spend time with a lowlife like me. Work always comes first, you never let me forget it."

"Well, excuse me for trying not fuck up the one thing in my life I have going for me. You have no idea how hard I worked to get to where I am, to have this job," she slammed.

"Yeah? How many people did you have to fuck to get it?" he accused. He knew he had crossed the line, but there was nothing left to do other than wait it out.

Only the whizzing of the shower and the angry pants between them prevented an awkward silence. She didn't respond, and her staid face didn't give away any emotion except for her tiger eyes. The two of them stood in the middle of the bathroom, squared off. He sheepishly waited for her reaction, and prepared himself for the worst. When she finally spoke, her voice revealed anger laced with hurt.

"Get out," she spitted out. She grabbed a robe from the rack, and hastily threw it over her body. She wanted more than anything to just hate him.

"I'm so sorry, San." He almost wanted to say that he didn't mean it, but in a weird way, he did. He knew she was gorgeous, but that wasn't always enough. He had doubts about how she made it this far, but they were casual enough that a simple answer from her would have brushed them away.

"Get the fuck out of my house right now." She never wanted to see his face again. But that was a lie. She couldn't deal with him right now, not when he just questioned her integrity. Her champion, the one person who thought she had talent from Day 1, basically just admitted he didn't believe in her at all. If he had lied about that, what else was fake?

He hung his head, as she sauntered out the door, her wet hair swinging behind her like a flag waving goodbye.

**Their first fight! Ooh! But, they sung a song. Happy? :) I tried to make it not so cliche.**

**Question to think about, just one this time. Answer if you'd like, cause I'd love it:**

**1) Good stories rarely mention their titles, but the title is ALWAYS significant. What does "Calling All Angels" have to do with this story? That is, who are the angel(s) and who needs to be saved (and from what?)?  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey, here's Chapter 12. Sorry it took a while. But I'm on break now so I'll probably be writing more. Also, thank you so much for the amazing reviews, I saw a lot of new ones from readers I hadn't heard from before- Yay! I wish I could reply to ones without a link!**

**Fi: Yes, it's been hard trying to keep their characteristics in there, while trying to write this totally abstract story. But I think ten years later gives me enough leeway to be able to change a couple of things about themselves. Puck and Santana have grown up a little bit, but are still themselves. And yes, I hate pregnancy plots too, but I think I'm going to be able to pull this off. No, its not going to be crazy like that. Also, who said Santana got an abortion? I dont think I ever revealed any details about that. Then again, who said she didnt? Hehe. And wow! Turkey! We're learning about that in school this week. Awesome! Thanks for the review!**

"Hey, you've reached Brittany. Actually, no you haven't. Why do people say that? Anyways, leave a message…"

"Hey Britt, it's me. I know I haven't called you in forever and I'm really sorry and I've been meaning to, I swear and I hope you're not dying in a ditch somewhere but I know Artie would never let that happen and God, I'm rambling. I've just had a really really bad week, okay? It's like my entire life is a big 'Fuck You' from God. And I-I-I just don't even know what the hell I'm doing anymore—" Santana cried. Nothing was turning out right. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to put down your phone. The plane is about to take flight," the stewardess interrupted, placing a gentle hand on Santana's toned forearm.

"And now the stupid stewardess is telling me to turn off my damn phone, and she just called me ma'am, so can you just call me? Please? I just really want someone to talk to. I miss y—"

"…BEEEEEEP. Now begin recording your message," replied the automatic robot on the other line. Of course. Leave it to Brittany to have a dysfunctional answering machine. This _would_ happen to her, of all people. Muster up the courage to call your ex-best friend/almost-girlfriend after practically a decade and your message is a lost cause. Yet again, another letdown in her disenchanted life.

She set down the phone and buried her head into her cool hands, massaging her temples with her fingers. Somehow she knew that nothing right now could bring her out of her current hostile yet disillusioned state, not even the girl that used to mean so much to her.

* * *

"_Hey Britts!" she yelled from down the hall. The other kids looked up, but when they saw it was just Santana being her loud, demanding self, they continued with their own mundane lives._

"_Oh, hi Santana," Brittany answered, walking up to her other, smarter half._

"_So, wanna come over for a Real Housewives marathon tonight? I'll even let you pick the city?" Santana offered. That was as sincere as her olive branch could get. She was going to maintain a somewhat normal relationship with Brittany while Brittany was off in her good-girlfriend, cripple-loving phase._

"_Are you on a boyfast again?" Brittany answered. _

"_Yes. I've had it with boys and their stupidity. None of them can even touch my level. So Housewives tonight?" Santana asked. Puck had promised to come with her to a gosee in Cincinnati this weekend. He was even excited about it. "Hot babes in the city? I'm down," he had proclaimed. But of course, he bailed on her at last minute to hang out with Lauren at the fucking senior center, volunteering for Square Dancing night or something of the sort._

"_Gee, Santana. I wish I could, but I told Artie I was going to go bowling with him," Brittany said ruefully. Really? Santana's offer was a genuine one, and Brittany could've either taken it or left it. Brittany just most definitely left it. And for what? A tacky "date" with her paraplegic boyfriend, eating bad nachos and wearing those disgusting rental shoes? It was obvious where Brittany's alliances laid, and Santana was nowhere near the top. With friends like that, Santana was sure to be the luckiest girl in the world, as Ellie Gloucester declared in Homeroom that morning after Mr. Horn had asked what she had done that weekend and Santana replied with a story about her gosee._

"_Bowling?" Santana scrunched her nose, "Is that even safe? What if he rolls down the lane and spins out?" Santana was so not going to let Brittany see how upset she was, even if the blonde wouldn't have been able to tell._

"_What does that even mean!" Brittany asked, completely oblivious to Santana's dig at her boyfriend._

"_Forget it."_

* * *

He paced the floor of their apartment, well _her's_, actually, but whatever. Why the fuck did he say that? Or rather, why the fuck was he thinking that? He basically called her a slut. God damn it, he always fucked himself over every time he had something good going for him.

Also, where the fuck was she? Surprisingly, he'd had the brains to figure out that she didn't want him in her apartment while she was there. So, he hadn't gone back since that day, and had instead checked into a hotel. But he was getting a little antsy. He knew she needed time to cool off (because Lord knows she would bite his head off if he approached her then), but three days must be enough. She wasn't at work. He'd stopped by the studio yesterday, and a visibly annoyed assistant with a Bluetooth, walkie-talkie, and headset promptly denied him entrance.

Still, the apartment looked a mess like she hadn't lived in it for a short bit. The turkey sandwich he had made that day was still sitting on the kitchen counter, half eaten. And her clothes were strewn across the hallway still.

He hoped she was okay.

He _really _hoped she wasn't at some other undeserving douchebag's house. (Because if any jerk was going to have her, it was going to be him)

He had to talk to her. He'd called her dozens of times and left even more messages, but it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out that she was screening his calls (with good reason).

* * *

"_Santana. Come on, baby. It's been a week, and I'm deprived. Please?"_

_Beep._

"_Santana, Jesus Christ. I said I'm sorry, what more do you want?"_

_Beep._

"_It's me, again. Look, I get that you're mad, but I don't see why. It wasn't like I planned for her to get pregnant. Besides, we weren't official, so I didn't even cheat on you. So now will you call me?"_

_Beep._

"_Last chance, Lopez. I'll bring the party to you, senorita. So call me, okay?"_

_Beep._

_He'd been trying for the last couple of hours to call her, leaving messages here and there that were more pathetic and whiny than genuinely apologetic. What could he do? She was pissed, and now she wasn't talking to him. That was all there was to it._

_His phone vibrated from across the room. He sprinted up to grab it, rising up from his bed, where he had been mindlessly tossing a basketball in the air while lying down. A new text message—from her. He pushed the green button on his phone and read the only two words she'd "said" to him all week._

"_Fuck you."_

_Well, despite the irony in her choice of words, it was safe to say he wasn't getting laid anytime soon._

* * *

Santana Madison actually hated industry parties. Really. Even if she was the center of attention there, which she usually was. The flashing lights were too bright and giving her a headache, and the fatty appetizers were full of unnecessary carbs. The trashy Euro pop blasting through the entire building didn't settle her queasy condition either.

Why did she fly halfway across the world to mingle with people she didn't even _like_?

Because the first guy she really really liked (maybe even loved) called her a slut/thief/fake/etc.

Oh, that's right.

She circulated the posh lounge with expert grace, and declined a champagne flute from a waiter passing by. She smiled and made small talk with Margherita Missoni, who was begging her to be the face of the Fall line for next year.

"Think about it, Santana. Let's be honest here. You're not exactly a fresh face, and who knows if you're going to get another of these opportunities once your Victoria's Secret contract runs out?" urged Margherita. Excuse her? Santana was only 28. For normal career standards, she was young and incredibly blessed to be so successful already. But for a model? She was practically retired.

"Well," Santana started, but before she could finish her sentence, Margherita interrupted her.

"Oh, here comes your gorgeous boyfriend. I'm sure he misses you; he's been moping at every casting call in this country. You're so lucky!" Margherita gushed before walking away. Boyfriend? What boyfriend? When Santana looked up and saw who was approaching her, she turned around quickly and made a beeline for the bar with the intensity of a bargain shopper at Walmart.

Shit. Too late. He had seen her and was coming this way. She really didn't want to deal with him right now. She was hoping that maybe by the end of the party, she would find him for a little late-night lust, but it was far too early now.

"Santana, _carina_! Long time, no see! Did you get my packages?" Ilario cried.

Santana smiled with one of those fake grins she used to feed to Lauren Zizes and all those other hos she had to pretend to like for his sake in high school.

"I've been _very_ busy, Ilario. You know how that is, no?" she asked sweetly. She decided the best way to get him to stop chatting her up was to charm him with compliments until his own ego swelled to the point where he no longer needed her there to listen to himself talk. Now, her relationship with Ilario was a rather peculiar one. She appreciated his company, when his company came in the form of getting naked in a penthouse suite at midnight when they'd both had too much to drink. But when he opened his loud, narcissistic mouth? Not so much. She could only handle one self-indulged bastard in her life at a time, and the one she wanted was halfway around the world as of now.

"Of course," Ilario purred, stroking her arm. His cold touch triggered a realization from her core. She didn't need to listen to him talk, when what they both wanted from each other had nothing to do with words. She reached up and grabbed the nape of his neck and jerked him closer abruptly. Yup, that got his attention. He stopped talking and kissed her. He tasted like European cigarettes and scotch. In other words, he didn't taste like that terrible "chocolate"-flavored Muscle Milk and cinnamon gum. In fewer words, he tasted wrong. In even simpler terms, he didn't taste like Puck. Still, maybe that was a good thing.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed and shook her from her alcohol, hurt, and exhaustion induced haze. She quickly glanced at the screen, not bothering to excuse her rude behavior, and saw that it was the _other_ guy she really didn't want to deal with right now. But what choice did she have? She knew she shouldn't have even looked at the identification screen. The second she saw it was him calling, she knew wouldn't be able to resist picking up. She'd let herself go a little bit, thinking she had more self-control. But she obviously didn't, which was why she'd turned her phone off the last two days and dropped off the face of the electronic planet.

"I have to take this," Santana said apologetically, before running out to the balcony, where the chilly evening air bit at her skin through her silky romper.

"What?" she hissed into the phone.

"Hello? Santana?" Puck exclaimed, surprised that he had even gotten through.

"Who else would it be? Lady fucking Gaga?" she deadpanned.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Milan," she replied matter-of-factly, as if jetting off to a whole other continent on a day's notice was a thing most people did.

"You left the country?" he yelped. Really? Who did that?

"Yes, Giorgio Armani invited me. Why? You thought your little comment was going to put me into a deep spiraling depression and make me hole myself up in an insane asylum? Well, guess what? Life goes on, especially mine. I have more important things to do. Now what the hell do you want?" She was stronger than that, at least she tried to be. She sure as hell wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had broken her, although he had fractured her at the least.

"Santana. I am so so so sorry about that. Please let me explain. You know I didn't mean it, honest. Can I just say-"

"No, you can't," she snapped, her voice cracking a bit. She disguised it as a cough, but he knew her better. Just hearing his voice was enough for her to flashback to the day when he'd called her a slut. She felt herself slowly melting because of his smooth voice, and she had to grip the metal railing to compose herself before she fell into his stupid trap. _Remember, Santana. He was a douche to you. He has no right to apologize._ She cleared her throat (for real this time), and pushed back the tears that were threatening to burst out.

"Well then, can I say I miss you? How about that, Santana? Can I say that I feel like shit about what I said, and I really miss you? Can I say that I care about you, and I'm never going to forgive myself if you don't ever see me again and let me explain? Come home soon, San. Please. Come home," he begged. His slightly-selfish request was almost a taunt.

She wasn't going to forgive him just yet. But his declaration was so genuine that she knew it was a once-in-a-million kind of thing. Who knew when she was ever going to get that kind of proclamation from a guy again, if ever? So she listened, against her better judgment. And then she thought about it for a little bit. And she came to the understanding that she was a bigger person than the petulant child she had been acting like recently.

"Okay," she said softly. She heard a sigh of relief on the other line. What possessed her to agree to that? It wasn't that this was the first time ever that he had ever said that he cared about her that much directly. It wasn't his amazingly soothing and convincing voice. It was the fact that he said "home." Like there was something to come back to. Like there would be something waiting for her. Home, as if they lived in a stupid fairy tale house with a white picket fence and a golden retriever in the front yard. She hung up the phone abruptly before she could let herself go anymore and took in another breath of the crisp Italian air, before bracing herself for the conversation inside.

"There you are, Santana. Why don't we slip out for a bit? My apartment is only a couple blocks from here," Ilario suggested as she returned. Real subtle there.

"No, I don't think so," she asserted.

"Why? I'm so lonely without you, baby. Where have you been? Ilario has missed you," her enunciated, leaning back on the bar counter to show off his modelesque physique. Santana rolled her eyes. She didn't really know why she was ever attracted to this guy. He was a complete cocky bastard. Actually, that seemed to be her type these days. Still, one Puck was enough for her.

"Long story," she said. She didn't really want to explain the whole reunited-lover thing to her estranged one.

"I've got time."

"Yeah, well, I don't." She promptly grabbed her clutch from the counter and wandered off. Like she said, she had more important things to do—such as booking the next flight out to New York City.

**Sorry this chapter wasnt very exciting, but I needed it to progress the story. **

**A question to think about. If you answered it in a review, I'd be delighted! But think about the question, cause its really helpful for understanding the story on multiple levels!  
**

**1) The underlying topic of this chapter was time. Santana doesn't have it (career-wise, personal-wise, etc.), and it's almost as if she wastes her time. She's getting older, and Puck's already confessed he's going through a quarterlife crisis. Could Santana be too? Is she happy with her life? Or at least happy enough to keep doing what she's doing?**

**More Brittana and Pucktana to come, so stay intrigued. Hehe.**

**REVIEW, PLEASE!  
**


	13. Chapter 13

**Wow, awesome reviews, guys! Here's this chapter a little early. Also, shoutout to Rosetta, who gave me an amazing review. Sorry the plot is getting a little flat and sluggish, but it needs to be done to advance the whole story. Anyhoo, some serious developments in this chapter:**

When she unlocked the door to her apartment at three in the morning, she didn't expect him to be sitting quietly at her dinner table, his figure partially illuminated by the dim light hanging over him. But then again, when were the two of them ever predictable?

"You're up." It was more of an observation than a salutation, but he was going to take it.

"Was waiting for you," he said pointedly, gesturing towards the empty chair across from him. She chose to ignore his offer.

"Oh. Well, here I am," she said awkwardly, as she tossed her keys into the potted plant by the door. She was jetlagged and she practically could feel her day-old makeup invading her skin, pore by pore. "I think I'm going to tune in for the night, I'm pretty tired. I'll see you in the morning." When she said she was going to come home (Well obviously, she was going to come home eventually; she didn't really know why he'd tried so hard to get her to), she wasn't expecting a big, important talk the second she walked in the door. Couldn't he just give her some space? Or time to get settled in?

"No, wait. Would you please? I really want to get this all out right now." It wasn't the first time that day that he'd requested something from her; she was in a generous mood since the stewardess on the flight back called her "miss" instead, and gave her three refills of her bubbly.

"Okay," she said, taking a seat across from him. He slid one of the two cups of tea across the table towards her, and she noticed it was warm. Had he been waiting for her all night, refilling tea cup by cup so that she wouldn't have to drink cold tea? How did he know she'd even come back that night?

"I wanted to say I'm so sorry. I know you've heard it before, but that's all that I can think of to say to you, because that's all that's been running through my mind. And you know I didn't mean it, honest."

He was right. She had heard all of that before. Many times, on many different occasions. But somehow, they always ended up in the same situation.

* * *

_Okay, this was getting cruel, but Santana was the meanest person he knew, so he didn't know why he was even surprised. The bulge in his boxers was getting more agonizingly painful by the second and he needed his release. She, however, was sitting across the room on his bed, her legs tightly locked at the knees, lips firmly pursed into a thin line, and arms knotted in front of her chest so he couldn't even ogle her nipples through the slub-knit fabric while she silently fumed._

"_Why did you even ask me over?" she snapped. She was sitting so still and so tensely that he was worried he might have a permanent impression of her butt leftover in his mattress when she left, which was sure to be soon, he assumed. It was as if she was trying to take up as little space as possible by sitting in the most compact position ever._

"_You didn't have to come."_

_She only glared at him, and he instantly wished he could retract the comment. Making snarky comments was surely not the way to her forgiveness. But he was right. She didn't have to come._

"_Come on, boo. Baby. San. You're my girl, you know that," he cooed, slowly inching his way towards her. She didn't so much as flinch at his blandishments, because from him, they meant nothing. She knew better. "You know I didn't mean it." Did she?_

"_You didn't mean it when you called me Quinn while I was on top of you? How do you just not mean something like that?" she snapped. He was now in front of her feet, and he was slowly stroking her tanned calf with his fingers, trailing the fine hairs that were quivering at his touch and against her will._

"_I don't know."_

"_Do you really think I'm an idiot?"_

"_No, no, of course not. And hey, if makes you feel any better, when I was screwing her, I was thinking about you," he offered. Shit! He did it again._

"_Oh great, bring that up again. Just when I was starting to forget the fact that you have a self-righteous babymama," she said sarcastically. How could she ever forget?_

"_I only did it because you were being a bitch that week." As if that was any type of justification. _

"_So now it's my fault you knocked up the frigid whore?" she shot back._

"_No, shit! Look, I'm sorry. Again. For everything. For whatever it is that I did." Was it bad that he didn't even know?_

"_What is it that you exactly want? Sex, forgiveness, or me?" she interrogated. He was stumped. For sure, this must be some trick question that Santana was using to fuck with him to test him or some chick shit like that. _

"_Uh, aren't they all the same?" She rose abruptly and started to grab her purse from his desk._

"_Wait! I only said that because there's so many things that you offer. Like, uhm, if I have you, then I get sex and forgiveness. Like a two for one deal!" he whined. He was treading water here._

_She gave him a pathetic look and started to head out the door._

"_No! I want you. Only you. I swear. Even when all this shit hits the fan, it'll still be you." He was making empty promises, but he had to play his trump card._

_She stopped, and turned around._

"_You didn't mean it?"_

"_100% didn't mean it, babe._

"_Well, okay." She had given in, and he had won, again. She promised herself she was going to be stronger, more independent. Not rely on him so much. Not get attached was more like it. "You promise you don't give a shit about that fucking hypocritical, pity-party Quinn Fabray?"_

"_She means nothing." It was all a lie, like everything else he promised, but she chose to believe him for fear of losing everything. _

"_Good, now let me take care of you," she said, coming back to straddle him. She had tortured him long enough._

_His hollow words meant nothing, but as long as they made her feel special for just a moment, she was going to hang onto every word. How could she resist when all she wanted was to be wanted?_

* * *

"I know you didn't," she said softly. She felt herself falling into his sweet-talking trap, but made no self-conscious attempt to resist. This time, she thought, the circumstances between them were different. They were older, more mature than all the other times. This time, maybe he wasn't just telling her what he thought she would want to hear so that they'd move past their tiff and get on with the fucking. But where were all the "I need you, baby-s" or the "I can't live without you-s" that she had grown accustomed to hearing after his apologies. The kind she had got a taste of in their phone conversation. Was it wrong to expect a more direct proclamation of affection this early in their relationship? Not that their relationship was that early, it had spanned decades by this point. She felt a little bit stupid for hoping that maybe he would say that he loved her. No, he couldn't possibly love her. She was just being ridiculous again.

"I don't know what came over me," he confessed. They're relationship was quickly moving into serious territory, and he supposed he was getting cold feet.

"I kissed someone else while I was in Italy," she admitted. As long as they were on this confession roll, she might as well keep the ball rolling. She didn't want to keep anymore secrets from him (But, there were some things she couldn't tell him). She watched his face as he tried to stomach the news, and didn't speak until she saw him swallow the gulp of air that lingered in his throat.

"Okay." He could live with that. He had no one to blame. They weren't dating or anything, but after hearing her say that, he wanted them to be.

"It didn't mean anything," she said quickly backtracking. She didn't think it would have mattered that much to him, but guess not.

"Even better," he said dryly. She gave him a glare, as if to say, "Watch it. You're not off the hook yet." He relented, and tossed his hands in the air helplessly.

They sat there in silence, as the ticking of the clock broke the thick silence between them. She took a couple sips of the tea—Darjeeling, her favorite—as he watched her.

"It was one, by the way," she randomly said after a bit, out of the blue.

"One what?" He was very confused.

"One guy. One guy I fucked to get my job," she said, tossing in an empty chortle.

"Santana…" he started. She didn't have to tell him, so he wasn't going to press the matter. Besides, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear about it.

"No, let me tell you. You wanted to know, Freudian slip or some shit like that. You doubted me, and I get it. I really do. So it was one. It was Theodore Probst, that publishing tycoon, and it was 10 years ago," she argued.

* * *

_Santana shivered as she stood on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus to come. She tapped her three inch heels impatiently, even though each time the heel hit the pavement, a jolt of pain shot straight up her leg. Who said being a model was glamorous? Nothing about her life was glamorous. She was eating peanut butter sandwiches day and night, living in an apartment in the sketchiest part of town, and all her money (the little that she made doing catalog work) went to keeping up her appearance so she could book more jobs. There were enough hours in the day. At this rate, she could work forever and still never make it._

_And, god, where was the stinking bus? Public transportation in this city was not reliable. She should have taken the subway, but the last time she did that, a creepy panhandler followed her three blocks until she turned a corner into an Irish pub and lost him. Yeah, never again._

_Plus, it was cold. Very cold._

"_Excuse me, miss. You look very uncomfortable. Do you need a ride?" A very expensive Rolls Royce had pulled up, and an elderly man's face poked out from over the tinted windows._

_Yes, she was uncomfortable. Yes, she needed a ride. But did she need a ride from him? New Yorkers did have a reputation for being rude. Surely this guy didn't want to kidnap and rape her. He looked nice and rich. Plus, how scary could a guy who driving through the Upper East Side be?_

"_I promise I'm not a serial killer." The guy must have read her thoughts. "I'm Theodore Probst, the publishing guy?"_

"_Oh!" Santana squeaked, "I just came from a shoot for some perfume that's going on the back page of Marie Claire!" Theodore Probst noticed her on a sidewalk? Oh my god! The guy was a fucking gazillionaire!_

"_Aha, you're a model. I thought so. I guess I'm your boss then. So what do you say? A ride? My driver can take you anywhere you need." _

"_Well, okay. Thanks, Mr. Probst," Santana answered shyly. She still didn't like to take things from other people, but she was getting pretty desperate._

"_Please, sweetie. Call me Teddy," he replied as he pushed open the door and scooted over to make room for her. She climbed in._

"_Where to?"_

"_Harlem," she said._

"_Harlem? What's a pretty girl like you doing all the way out there?" Teddy yelped._

"_It's all I can afford. I'm a struggling model; it's part of the description," Santana explained halfheartedly. _

"_Ah, I see. So where are you originally from?" _

_Santana hesitated. She had been advised not to tell anyone of her smalltown roots, because then people would take advantage of her naiveté. But she wasn't naïve, right? She was the most mature girl in Lima. Teddy seemed like a nice enough guy. Non-judgmental, even. He didn't really care that she lived in Harlem. In fact, he seemed like he was concerned!_

"_Lima, Ohio."_

"_Oh yeah? Never heard of it. What's that like?"_

"_Oh you wouldn't have. It's a complete wasteland. I'm so glad I'm out of there." _

"_I'll bet. Are you liking New York then?"_

_She didn't know what to say. She was grateful to this city for giving her an out of community college in Lima, but she couldn't mask her depression._

"_I hate it. It's miserable. But better than Lima, so I guess that's something."_

_Teddy placed his hand on her bare kneecap. "Well, it will get better."_

"_Yeah? Cause it seems pretty fucking terrible now. Being a model….just isn't what I expected it to be."_

"_That's because you really haven't become a model yet. But you have a star quality. I know it when I see it. You've got it. You'll be a star in no time, honey."_

"_Thanks, Teddy," Santana said, as she turned away from him to gaze out the window. "Wait-where are we going?"_

"_Oh, I must not have told my driver we were going to Harlem. I'm so sorry. Where are we now?"_

"_Wall Street. Oh god, we're all the way on the other side of New York." Shit, what was she going to do? She didn't want to make him driver her all the way back._

"_Crap. Tell you what, I have a penthouse suite over here. Why don't you stay the night? It's getting so late. I promise you can have all the room service you want. Seems like you need to be treated like a princess."_

_Uh….Santana was a little bit apprehensive but she was exhausted. And room service did sound really good. Teddy was nice. Santana was good a judging people, and he didn't seem to be any kind of creeper. Although it was probably too good to be true, she had to take her chances. "Sure. Thanks, Teddy."_

_She shouldn't have gotten into a car with a stranger. She certainly shouldn't be going home with him. But she was too sick of everything to care._

* * *

"I was lonely in this strange city, and Teddy made me feel wanted. He listened to me talk about myself, and it seemed like he actually cared about other people, unlike every other self-absorbed jerk in New York. So I was willing to overlook the fact that he was old enough to be my grandfather and I let him take me to his room. We did it, just once," she continued.

Again, he tried to stop her. And again, she couldn't.

"The next morning, I left. I didn't care if he was a fucking billionaire or the fact that he had the most entertainment connections in New York City. A week later, he set me up on a meeting with Thakoon as 'favor.' I booked the job, and after that, the offers started to flood in. Then I wasn't so miserable after that. And that was that," she finished.

"And now? Do you ever talk to him?" he asked.

She shook her head. "We don't really run in the same circles anymore. But he sends me a Christmas card every year."

"You know it doesn't really count as fucking someone to get a job if it wasn't your intention…"

She waved him off. "You don't need to justify my actions for me. It doesn't matter, and I don't care. Anyways, I'm glad I told you. It's fine. We're fine." Her last words solidified his forgiveness, and he felt a huge weight being lifted off of his shoulders.

"I'm glad you wanted to, I think. Can I give you something, like a gift?" he said. He picked up a little present from her the day before, after she had hung up the phone. He wanted to change the direction this conversation was headed towards.

She looked caught off guard, but quickly regained her composure by making a joke. "As long as it's not lingerie. I've had enough of that for a lifetime."

"It's not, although I was seriously considering getting you some." He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out two little strips of paper. She picked them up, and struggled to read the fine print on the slips. She scrunched her nose.

"Two tickets to 'Explore New York'? What the fuck is that?"

"Tacky tourist day, remember? I fully expect you to break out the fanny pack as we parade around in a doubledecker bus," he offered. She scoffed.

"You wish. Maybe we could even go see a Broadway show. You know, as a big 'Fuck you' to Rachel Berry and high school?"

"Sure." Of course it had nothing to do with the fact that she loved performances, singing, and dancing. Of course not.

"One more thing," he said. He hadn't been planning on adding this part in just yet, but their recent discoveries about each other forced him to move their relationship faster, at risk of losing her again.

"God, what now?" she said exasperatedly, crossing her arms over her chest. Despite her feigned annoyance, he smirked.

"I was thinking…" he trailed, purposely slowing his words.

"Gee, what a shocker. You were thinking…"

"That we should be dating. Exclusive. Together. An item." Spending days on end alone in her apartment, he'd gone through her stack of Hollywood trash rags and in turn, discovered a plethora of words to express that kind of romantic relationship between two people.

Wait, what?

"Someone's been reading too many tabloids," she teased, changing the subject. Why was she hesitant? This was what she wanted, right? Or did she only want him to admit it, just to hear him say it? Her sixteen-year-old self felt a slight sense of accomplishment. _Aha! I've finally gotten you to say you want me! _But her twenty-eight-year-old self felt her heart skip a couple of beats until the gravity of the situation hit her.

"So what do you say? Don't say you haven't thought about it," he prodded.

"Really?" He had better not be fucking with her.

"Really."

Oh God. He was serious. This could be it. What she had been waiting for as long as she could remember. Someone to take her seriously, not as a casual fuck. Someone like him.

"Okay, finnnnnne. But this time, you better have a really good credit score." God, it seemed like three forevers away since the last time they were "dating." And they both knew how that ended up. He grinned. Although they were taking a serious step in their relationship, they both were definitely not serious people by nature.

"Psh, don't worry babe. I've got it covered," he threw in, relaxedly. He still had more than enough money left over from what Eddie had given him.

"Good, because you know, as a woman, I need me some financial security," she said, getting up and swaying her hips as she slinked towards him. He slid his chair back to make room for her, and she climbed into his lap to straddle him. She wrapped her arms behind his head, her elbows resting on his shoulders. Her fingers were tickled by the stubble that was growing in the absence of a mohawk.

He laughed. "You're a gazillionaire. You're the definition of financial security."

"That's right. So don't think that I need you to support me, or any shit like that, because I don't. I am an independent, successful woman that needs no man. I'm not my mother. Don't let your dumbass man ego ever let you think otherwise," she said, wrapping herself in his cocoon. She was on another of her tough girl rampages, except this time she meant every word.

"Sure. You know, I have a really good feeling about this, San. I'm going to make you so happy, I swear." Happiness. God, that sounded so good. That was what she wanted, what she really needed right now.

He gave her a light kiss, and she laughed softly.

"Not like that you won't," she demanded, yanking him closer.

"Your wish is my command, babe," he said, and deepened the kiss.

"You're so corny."

"You know you love it."

**Oh, Santana! Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?**

**A question to think about:**

**1) Is (past and present) Santana immature or mature? What evidence do you have of this? How might this affect her actions/decisions?**

**I dont want to write the next chapter until the next episode of Glee airs, because what I have planned might be affected by that episode. So depending on how motivated I feel, I'll probably have it up by next weekend.**

**So, review! Think we could get 100 reviews? Lucky chapter 13! Come on guys!  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm so sorry I haven't updated. But I tried to make this one extra long to make up for it. Lesson learned guys. Dont make false promises about updates. Anyways, thanks so much to the awesome reviewers. We broke 100 guys! I love reading your comments. You guys know this story better than I do! **

Santana studied the contours of her naked body in the mirror. It had become a habit, stopping to look at herself in a mirror whenever possible, that is. It was almost as innate as her quick wit or her sex appeal. She could see the reflection of her boyfriend (Boyfriend! What a foreign concept!) behind her. He was sitting up in bed, lazily strumming her guitar. It was only until he reached the bridge of whatever song he was composing that she noticed that he was watching her, watch herself.

"What?" she asked. It was a little weird, although she was sure he couldn't have resisted the view even if he tried.

"Nothing, you've just been staring at yourself for the last five minutes. I'm pretty sure all your body parts are still there. What's up?" he asked, setting down the guitar on the left side of the bed, as if the guitar was a proxy for her sleeping body.

"It's just-" she whipped around to face him, "Is my left boob lower than my right?"

He burst out laughing, the reaction she had expected. "Uh, why does it matter?"

"Because it's sagging, then I have to go in and fix it," she explained.

"Why?" Well, wasn't he just full of questions today. He hadn't noticed any disparities between her breasts. If there was a difference, it was so minute that it was insignificant to anything.

"Because I need to look hot. Duh." She thought she had explained this concept to him many times before. Supermodel = hot. Hot = big, perky boobs. It was the way things were. She didn't make the rules, but she sure as hell had to live by them if she wanted to survive in the ugly industry of looking pretty.

"You're already hot. You're sex on a stick. So why do you insist on feeling like a stranger in your own body?" he inquired.

"Wait, what? I don't feel like a stranger in my own body. In fact, I am very comfortable in my own body. Which is why I model practically naked," she countered. He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, what now? I told you, I need nice boobs for work."

"No you don't. You could sell anything if you wanted. You were already a star before you even got this. You were the one that revolutionized modeling for short models. I would know, I Wikipedia'd you. So why can't you do the same for real, but smaller breasts? And don't say it was some stupid thing you did in high school and now you're stuck with it. It's not a permanent thing. You use work as an excused for everything, Santana. You've given up everything for your career, and honestly, I don't think it's worth it."

Okay, what was up with his lecture? It wasn't like she was Heidi fucking Montag. There wasn't an ounce of plastic in her body other than her breasts. She bit her lip.

"I—I-" she started. But then she lost her train of thought. Nonetheless, she had a comeback for him. "If you know everything about me, why haven't you complained before? I thought you wanted a hot girlfriend," she snipped.

"I already have a hot girlfriend, silicone or not. And I'd rather have a real one that loves herself the way she is." She started to deny these self-esteem issues he claimed to have, but she knew he was right. She hated how he knew how she felt before she felt it. She hated how he knew her better than she knew herself. She hated how mature he'd become while she hadn't been looking. She hated how inadequate she felt next to him, as if she was too naïve and lighthearted to be taken seriously as a mate. When did he grow up on her?

* * *

_Rachel really didn't know how she even knew these people. Thank god they were secluded within the perimeters of Santana's house, in the outskirts of town. If anyone ever found out about the type of people she hung out with and how they really acted in their nature, Rachel would die of shame._

_She really didn't know why she was even here. Right, Spanish class._

_"Can you focus please, Santana? We have to finish by tonight," Rachel sighed. Why was she the only one working? _

_"I am," Santana said. It didn't sound too convincing. _

_"No, on the project," Rachel clarified. Every time she looked over at her partner, Santana had her tongue jammed down Noah's throat._

_"Untwist your granny panties, Yentl. I'm the one doing the real work, remember? You're just making the poster pretty," Santana said as she rolled her eyes. That much was true. Santana was doing the actual translating, and Rachel was just doing the planning and organization of everything. But Santana's part would be done in a few minutes, whereas Rachel was already covered in glitter glue and Magic Marker. It was the effort that counted! It wasn't fair that Santana was just naturally gifted at Spanish._

_ Rachel was being annoying, as usual. Really, her part wasn't even being graded. Rachel should be thankful that she had Santana as a partner. Why would Mr. Shue pair the two of them up? Did he think that just because she joined Glee Club that she was going to be all buddy-buddy with wannabe Barbra here? It wasn't like she wanted to join Glee Club; Coach Sylvester asked her to, and Santana would do anything for the Cheerios. At least she and Man Hands were going to get an A for sure. Now would Rachel please get off her back?_

_"Noah, why are you even here?" Rachel snapped, looking over at the teenage boy who was teasing the spunky Latina with a bottle of whipped cream he'd swiped from the Lopez kitchen. The two "friends with benefits" (Could she call them that? They were only fifteen…) were hanging out in the corner of the living room, leaving Rachel in the center all alone._

_"He's always here," Santana answered for him, "He just can't stay away." _

_"You know you love it, babe," Puck said as he smudged a dollop of whipped cream on Santana's cheek, before squirting some more directly in his mouth. Gross. Did he know how unhygienic that was?_

_Santana apparently didn't think so. She squealed and pushed him away, getting some whipped cream on his jeans in the process._

_"Ha! It looks like you jizzed in your pants!" Santana shrieked, licking some of the white, fluffy substance off the corner of her lips._

_Rachel rolled her eyes, again. Now the two of them were rolling on the ground, wrestling. Santana kept erupting in giggles and screams._

_"You guys are so unsophisticated. You're not going to get anywhere in life, much less graduate high school, if you don't take yourselves seriously," Rachel explained, in a last ditch effort._

_"Irrelevant" was Puck's reply._

_"Come on, when are you guys going to grow up?"_

_"Never!" shouted Noah. Santana showed her agreement by jumping on top of him. Two things became obvious to Rachel. 1) She was going to end up doing this project all by herself, and 2) These two would never act their age, as long as they had each other._

_But what would the fun in that now?_

* * *

Santana remembered her lost thought. "I need them," she whispered. And not for work. But he knew that already, of course.

"Come here," he gestered. She threw on a robe and crawled into their bed, and buried herself in his side, inhaling his natural scent.

"I need them. I need them for work, because I am nothing without my body, and that scares the fucking shit out of me. I need them for me, or else I feel like I'm disappearing into the wallpaper. And so what if I do? Am I not allowed to feel good about myself?" she asked, still not looking up.

"Yes, you are. And I'm glad you love yourself, even if you do need them. But do you ever think there will be a time when you don't need them?"

"Maybe. Eventually." Good enough.

"Okay. I get it, you know? This, your life as a model, it's the hardest thing you've ever worked for, and you don't want to fuck it up. I get it." He understood. It was a lot like how he would have done anything to be a father to baby Beth, even if it meant being with Quinn and betraying everything about himself.

"It's not," she replied.

"Not what?"

"Not the hardest thing I've ever worked for. Not the hardest thing I've ever worked at."

"It isn't? Well what is then?"

"You."

* * *

_"Santana, are you sure about this? I'm scared. What if we get in trouble?" Brittany whined. _

_"We won't, Britt. Do you want to help me or not?" Santana said, as she reached for the sugar. She took a scoop and dropped a hefty amount of sweetness into the batter. All the more convincing._

_"I do! But you said we were going to make brownies!"_

_"Well, what does it look like we're doing?" Santana stuck her wooden spoon into the bowl and started mixing viciously, putting all her effort into her baking, and into her plan._

_"Yeah, but what fun is it if we don't get to eat them? Why do we have to give them to Lauren? I thought you hated her because she took Puck from you."_

_"I do, Brittany," Santana sighed. Being conniving was no fun when your partner in crime just didn't get the plan. "Unless you want to be barfing your guts out, then I highly recommend you stay away from our brownies. I mean it. These are only for the rhino."_

_"Okay. Wait, why are you making brownies for her if you hate her again?" whimpered Brittany._

_"Never mind, Brittany. Just hand me the laxatives," Santana said, gesturing to the little baggie she'd shoplifted from the drugstore last week. Brittany handed it over, and closed her eyes as Santana dumped the powder into the batter. The little white granules sprinkled on to the chocolate mix, and Santana felt a rush of satisfaction come over her. Santana shook her head in shame almost. She'd given up her Friday night for this. Just like she'd given up horseback riding all last year, just to have time to scheme about how she would get Quinn back for the Beth thing. And the time she'd spit in Mercedes' Tater Tots. And the time she got the manager at Breadstix to fire that skanky waitress, the one that was always making fuck eyes at Puck. The things she did for that boy._

_But then again, no one got between her and her man. _

* * *

"Me." Yes, him.

"It's always been you," she said as she tried to press herself even closer to his warm body.

He dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

This was it. It was going to happen, she knew it. He never kissed her on the forehead unless he had some stupid confession.

* * *

_"You know, I don't care if you're a lesbian," he said, lighting up a cigarette. He flickered his lighter back and forth. He kissed her forehead, wiping away a loose lock of hair that was sticking to her sticky skin._

_"Stop saying that," she snapped. She got out of bed and pulled the shades up, letting light into his bedroom. So what if she was giving all his neighbors a free show? Look at that girl, they would think, with a body to kill for, and a lover to die for.  
_

_"What?" he said. He could never win with Santana. He was trying to be all sensitive and shit, and she nearly bit his head off._

_"I'm not a lesbian!"_

_"You're not?" Then why was she dating Karofsky? Why else would anyone in their right mind be dating Karofsky?_

_"If I were, would I be here with you? I'm bicurious or whatever. Just because I'm in love with Brittany doesn't mean I'm a lesbian!"_

_"Okay then."_

_Whatever. As long as he was still getting laid._

* * *

Whether it was to cushion the blow of a mistake waiting to happen, or a sentimental declaration, a kiss on the forehead was always a harbinger of something important to come. And the way things had been going recently, she was sure he was going to say he loved her. She knew he had been thinking it. How long did you have to live with someone before they honest to fucking God just admit they loved you? Of course, the thought never occurred to Santana to just say she loved him first. She snuggled herself closer, feeling his bicep through her robe.

"Hey, San?"

"Yeah?"

"Not to sound like a chick or anything, but…"

It was about to happen. She could feel it. Yes! Yes! Yes! The ultimate confirmation of his feelings for her. Once he said it, he was hers forever.

"What is this robe made of? It's super soft. Like polyester or something like that?" he asked, stroking the small of her back.

What. The. Fuck.

"I don't know," she hissed (She did though, it was silk…Polyester? Did she look like she shopped at Wal-Mart?), "I have to go to work."

"Okay, then." Her sudden change in mood triggered an epiphany in him. He didn't know if whatever he said soured her mood, but he did know that whenever she mentioned her job, her face was devoid of any emotion and she sounded very listy and mundane, no matter the circumstances. It was then when this fundamental thought dawned on him.

"Do you even like your job?" he asked, point-blank.

"What do you mean 'Do I like my job?'" she asked, as if his question was ambiguous in any way possible. "I make bank, get tons of free shit, and have the dream job of millions of girls worldwide. What do you think?"

"Well, I think you hate it. But that's not what I asked."

"Fine, let me spell it out for you. No model has wanted to model since she was an embryo. All we ever do is get accidentally dragged into this business, but the truth is, no one ever leaves because the perks are too fucking great. Okay?"

"Okay." Why couldn't she just say she didn't like her job?

"Why do you care anyways?" she snapped. She gathered up her clothes, because well, she had to go to work. It wasn't just an excuse for everything, it was actually a contractual obligation.

"Because I want you to be happy."

"Says the depressed army vet."

He shrugged and picked up his guitar again. He'd gotten enough out of Santana today. There was no use in trying now that she was burned out. She'd filled her emotional quota of the day, and her defenses were up. He'd try again later.

When she got to work, she found Katie and Coral sitting around the office door, pretending to look distracted. It wasn't working, because they looked obviously as if they were eavesdropping. Although it was hard not to because Daniel was practically screaming.

"Who's in there?" Santana beckoned.

"Sasha," Coral snickered, "Chick got knocked up. What a stupid cunt."

Oh, no.

But Santana couldn't say anything to help Sasha now. All she could have done was keep Sasha's secret, and she did. So instead, Santana took a seat beside her coworkers, and whipped out her phone to peruse Twitter.

"How could you do this? How could you be so stupid? Do you even give a shit about your career?" Daniel yelled.

"Of course I do, that's why I'm begging you Daniel, I need this," Sasha cried.

"Well, I need a model who won't waddle down the runway looking like she just swallowed a watermelon whole! How could you do this to me? And now of all times? Do you know how much work you've added on to my already huge list of duties?" Wait, how could she do this to _him_? _Him_? What the hell did Sasha getting pregnant have to do with Daniel?

"I'm so sorry, Daniel. Please. I need this. I'm nothing with this. Please," Sasha begged. Santana wanted to run in there and ram a rod down Sasha's pathetic back, telling her to stand up straight, and stand up for herself. Stand up for her baby.

"Well too bad. I'm going to have to force you on maternity leave. But I'll be kind. I'll let you pick your replacement. Who should I call in? Maybe Chanel? Or Doutzen?" Of course Daniel was going to force her onto maternity leave. Which meant he was never hiring her back.

"I don't care anymore," Sasha said bitterly.

"Fine. I'll make it easy. Santana will take your place," Daniel snipped, before walking out the door, surprising all three listeners outside.

Wait, what? She would take Sasha's job? She already had a job of her own!

"Santana, I'm sure you heard that. Mama Sasha's giving you're her job. Say thank you," he said finally and sauntered off.

The four girls stared at each other, unsure what to do. Coral looked shocked. Katie looked overwhelmed. Santana looked guilty. And Sasha looked heartbroken.

"I'm so sorry," Santana said, enveloping the shaking Sasha in her arms.

"Don't be. Now you have my job. Now you have everything," Sasha said, wiping her tears. Sasha picked up her stuff and left.

The remaining three girls stood silently, as if having a moment for their fallen angel.

The rest of the day was grueling. Now that she had two jobs, she was going to have to put in the extra hours. More wardrobe fittings, makeup consultations, etc.

In lesser words, torture.

How could Daniel just do that? Abandon a girl he had been working with for four years when she needed it most. Sasha was more than a pretty face that worked for him, but he hadn't seen that. Instead, he berated her and crushed her spirit.

Santana was exhausted and shellshocked. Story of her life.

When she came home, he greeted her with a kiss and a hug. He asked what any dutiful boyfriend did after his girlfriend came from a long day at work.

"How was work?"

He hadn't expected this reaction. The color drained from her face and she collapsed. She deflated. She went back into his arms and sobbed. She heaved until there were no more tears, so she started screaming instead. He had no idea what was happening.

"Santana, baby. What's wrong?" he asked, pulling back to look at her tear-stained face. Whoever thought Santana Madison nee Lopez was an unemotional, stoic bitch was wrong. Santana waved him off and went into the bedroom. He trailed behind her. "Santana, tell me what's wrong."

"Sasha," she gulped.

"What did she do to you?" Puck sighed. So it was a stupid catfight thing.

"Nothing. She's pregnant. And Daniel—Daniel. He just threw her out! He just ripped into her and chewed her out. And then she was gone. Just like that," she cried, "Who does that? What is Sasha going to do now?"

"You know, she got fired from one job, Santana. It's not the end of the world."

"Not for you it isn't. For her, it is. And for me too, if that were to ever happen."

He wasn't sure if she meant getting pregnant or getting fired. Surely there was a difference.

"You don't understand!" she whined again, rebursting into tears. He automatically wished he hadn't tried to be the voice of reason.

"So help me," he said.

"Don't you get it? We need to hold on our careers before they all go to hell. I never graduated high school, Noah. What the fuck am I going to do when I don't have any more good braless years, much less Sasha?"

It was after her little monologue that he finally understood why these girls cared about something as trivial as fashion so much. It was all they had. They had no back-up plan, because this was the back-up plan. How pitiful. He was just an army brat with no direction in the future whatsoever, but at least he wasn't relying on anything other than himself to get through. He was glad though, that Santana was somewhat mature enough to know to start planning for her future.

He cocooned her in his strong arms and let her cry it out. "He just threw her out. Like she meant nothing," she sobbed. It could have been her getting fired, if she was in the same situation. She hiccuped a couple more times before breaking away.

She looked him straight in the eye and said, "I hate my job." It was fucking miserable. She couldn't cut her hair without consulting five different people. She couldn't leave work without paparazzos begging for a picture of her crotch. She couldn't handle the thought that her career could end any second.

But then again, she could change her mind about everything tomorrow.

"You do?" he asked, begging for confirmation.

She stayed silent until he nudged her. She wouldn't say it again.

"Why can't you say it?" he prodded. She still stayed silent. "Santana?"

"Because I feel guilty, okay?" she yelled.

Guilty? For what? He thought it had to do with pride. "What, why?" he asked.

"I have so much. I am so fortunate to have this dream job. I came from nothing, and now I have everything. So why aren't I happy? Why can't I just deal with it and be happy with what I have? Why do I feel guilty for wanting more?" she cried. She looked away.

"Because your dream job isn't a dream job. It's okay to want more. You've always demanded the best, Santana Lopez. Why are you any different now?" he said softly, tilting her head back towards him. Santana had always been the head bitch around. She always got what she wanted. That's how she landed this career, right? She worked hard for it. Although it didn't really make any difference now, now that her priorities and life goals changed.

"You're right. You're so right. I deserve more than that prick Daniel and Victoria's Secret. I am better than this," she declared. He was so fucking right. Who did Daniel think he was, walking all over her like that? Although it was a little hard to sound confident because her voice kept cracking.

"Does this mean you're going to quit your job?"

"Are you a retard? Of course not. I still don't have any other job skills, remember? I'm just going to ask for better hours. Those losers need me. They can't say no." Maybe eventually, she would learn to love her job. She learned to love him, for all his flaws right? She got up to start dinner (It was her turn to cook tonight, and by cook, she meant heat up a Hamburger Helper).

"That's my girl. Now you go out there and work what God gave you," he said, smacking her bottom as she headed for the door.

"But God didn't give me my boobs."

Oh, right.

**So there we have it. Here's some questions to think about, answer if you'd like**

**1) I haven't introduced any other New Directions kids in the story (except for flashbacks) other than Puck and Santana. This is deliberate. Why would I do that? Think about isolation, escape, different worlds, etc.**

**2) Major theme from the story: the dichotomy of everything vs nothing. How does this apply to Puck? Santana? Anyone else?**

**Review please! Even if you hate it!  
**


	15. Chapter 15

**I couldnt resist updating. You reviewers are just so great. But the catch is this might be the last update until mid June. I really need to do my homework, haha.**

* * *

_Spotted: Supermodel Santana Madison getting off the elevator at the Empire State building. The catch? She wasn't alone. With her was the same mystery man she's been seen with a couple times in the last few months. A source, who was on the observation deck the same day as Madison, says "The two of them were being very touchy-feely and kissed a couple of times. I would definitely say they looked like they were dating or more." Another source claims that Santana met her new guy at a party held by The Limited and has been smitten since September! Could America's favorite supermodel finally be taken off the market? Madison's representative couldn't be reached for comment, but catch Santana in the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show live on CBS in two weeks!_

* * *

He glanced casually at the homepage of that was open on Santana's laptop and shrugged. They had only been mobbed by the paparazzi once on their tourist excursion, which Santana had considered successful. He, however, didn't appreciate being pushed around by a group of guys with fanny packs and bright flashing bulbs. Santana was on her phone in the other room with her publicist, figuring out how she was going to play out their relationship to the public. Whatever, he was going to leave his fifteen minutes of fame to the professionals.

Anyways, he'd promised to call his ma today. He picked up the phone and dialed the Lima number that had belonged to the Puckerman house since 1995.

"Hello?" answered the tired, middle aged woman on the line.

"Hey Ma, it's me," he answered.

"Noah! Baby! Why do you never call me?" she replied, her voice instantly picking up. Her only son calling was the highlight of Allison Puckerman's day. Allison had been put through the wringer as a parent. She'd spent the last ten years never knowing exactly where her son was, or what he was doing, so the fact that her son was voluntarily checking in with her was quite a feat.

"I'm calling you now," he reasoned.

"When are you coming home? You've been out of the service for how long now? And you can't even find the time to visit your own mother? Who the hell do you think raised you?" Allison demanded.

"I know, I know, Ma. Sorry." He felt a little bad for not having visited his ma, but to be honest, he liked the New York routine better than the Lima one. The thought of the Lima one made him want to cringe. Poor Sarah, stuck there. He ,like Santana, felt a little guilty about his lifestyle.

"What are you doing in New York anyways?"

"Nothing special. Just hanging out. Trying to find something to do." He did miss his family. They were kind of the only thing he had.

"So come home! You know, Rhoda Goldberg's daughter just got divorced. She's very pretty, very Jewish, although a little on the short side. When are you going to settle down? I want some grandchildren!"

This was why he never called his mother. Because she never stopped bugging him to do something, never stopped with the questions. She was the quintessential stereotypical Jewish mother.

"Ma, I got a vasectomy, remember?"

"Well, those things don't really work. And you can get it reversed."

He shook his head. There was no use. "No, Ma. I don't need you to help me get women." Really, did his ma think he had no game?

"What? Do you have a girl over there in New York?" Allison's questions kept coming at rapid speed, and she had no intention of stopping.

"Maybe."

"Who is she? Do I know her?"

"What? Why would you know her?" he said quickly, trying to cover the uncertainty in his voice. He really didn't know why his ma asked that, as if she just knew all the single girls in all of New York. But of course, it didn't matter, because Allison was right. She did know Santana. But Puck wasn't really going to tell his mother that he was shacking up with the girl that "ruined his life." And there was no way anyone in Lima even knew about the two of them. No one watched Access Hollywood or anything like that. Well, maybe Kurt Hummel did, but he doubted his ma would know.

"Tell me about her, Noah. Is she a nice girl? Are you going to get married?"

"Whoa, ma. No, no, and no." Yeah, he wasn't going to discuss this with his mother.

"She's not a nice girl or you're not going to marry her?"

"No, I'm not going to talk to you about this. Is Sarah there?" he asked, changing the subject. Maybe he would tell Sarah. If Sarah had nothing going for her, at least she would know that her brother was dating the most eligible bachelorette according to Maxim.

"Fine." He heard some shuffling then his sister's voice.

"Hey dumbass. Mom wants me to ask you about your new girlfriend," Sarah greeted.

"Don't tell her anything. She'll have a heart attack," he commented.

"Why? Is she a stripper? A single mother? A treehugger?"

"Worse."

"Oh, the suspense is killing me. Tell me."

"Fine, but don't tell anyone in Lima. Anyone. Not just Ma." Santana told him once that the people in Lima weren't exactly proud of her, and that once, some church group petitioned to get a billboard of her down, and succeeded. It was safe to say that people there weren't as excited about her job as he was.

"Okay, jeez. You'd think you were dating a celebrity or something."

"It's Santana."

"Who?"

"Santana Lopez—erm, Madison. The Victoria's Secret Angel."

"Like, your high-school-fuck-buddy-who-ditched-Lima-and-now-everyone-hates-her-Santana?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Holy fucking shit. You're dating a supermodel. Well, is it serious?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean she's paying the rent and the utilities and everything."

"So you're mooching off her?" Sarah had a point, he was taking an awful lot from Santana. Was he pulling his weight in this relationship?

"Sure?"

"Well good, I always liked her. I bet she's loaded and knows everyone. If you guys get married and have bunches of babies, you'll have it made."

"I know, squirt."

"I'm glad. So Mom says you're going to come home soon. We haven't seen you in like three years. You owe us that."

"Yeah, well I want to, but I don't know about San." He couldn't imagine going home without her. As much as Santana tried to deny it, she was quintessential Lima. He couldn't think of his life in Lima without thinking of her.

"Soon. I miss you. And her," begged Sarah.

"Sure."

"Okay, I have to go to school. Promise me that when I graduate, I can come live with you guys in the Big Apple?"

"Ummm…." He didn't really want his kid sister around, even though he loved her.

"Thanks, you're the best brother ever! Bye." The line went dead. He put the phone back and went outside to see what Santana was up to. He found her lying on the couch, massaging her temples and eyes closed. She looked stressed.

"What's up?" he asked, sitting down on the floor near her head.

"I just got into a screaming match with my publicist. She wants us to act cutesy and tell the public, so I can 'personable' and 'relatable' for that media tour in a few months."

"And?"

"I told her, hell no. I'm going to the Tyra show to promote some underwear tour, not talk about us."

"Good," he said, and kissed the tip of her nose. She smiled in her tired haze, eyelids tickled.

"How was your phone call with your mother? She still doesn't know?" Santana asked. She'd given up on getting Allison to like her a long time ago. She honestly didn't care anymore if Puck's mom disliked her for being "Catholic" or "loose" or "distracting." Look at where she was now. All that whoring around with her son paid off, thank you very much.

"Nope. But Sarah misses you."

Santana smiled. She'd always liked Sarah. She remembered helping Puck babysit. Taking care of Sarah was like taking care of Brittany, but easier because Sarah was at least, more intelligent than a kangaroo.

* * *

_Santana slipped into the Puckerman home unannounced, in a way that suggested that she was here all along, and just maybe, this was where she belonged. She found Sarah on the couch, sitting in front of the television, and Puck sitting in the corner flipping through the sheet music for this week's Glee Club assignment. When he noticed her, he looked up, and put his music away._

"_Hey babe," he greeted. She threw her stuff on top of the pile of shoes by the doorway. _

"_Hi," she responded, "Hi Sarah." She threw in that last part to appease the little brat. Last time, she had ratted them out to Allison, who was not happy with the two of them "fooling around while a young child was left alone downstairs." _

"_Hey sis," Sarah answered. A grimace crossed Santana's face, and Puck struggled to keep the smirk off his face. Sarah was a mini-Puck, already knowing which buttons to push._

"_Don't call me that," Santana said calmly. Being Sarah's sister meant being Puck's sister, and that was just gross. _

"_What should I call you then?" asked Sarah innocently. Well, Santana was here about as much as her own brother was, so it was like she was Sarah's sister._

"_Auntie Tana," snickered Puck. This time her stern look was directed at him. _

"_Don't you dare," she added dryly, jabbing her index finger at him._

"_So I guess I'll stick with sis," said Sarah, returning back to the television. _

_It could be worse. Santana was going to drop it, because she was hot and horny and there was too much talking going on. She started to head up the stairs, with Puck on her trail, when she finally glanced at the television screen that Sarah was so intently focused on._

"_Oh my god, what are you watching?" Santana cried. The screen featured an amalgamation of neon monokinis, hot tubs, and overly tanned people making out. Why would anyone subject themselves to such trash? Even she had standards._

"_Jersey Shore," answered Sarah monotonously. Santana shot a look of horror at Puck, who shrugged. "She's eight," Santana mouthed at him. Again, he shrugged nonchalantly._

_Then, Santana made a snap decision the way she made snap judgments. "Okay, stop and turn that off right now, Sarah," Santana commanded. Puck gave her a look that beckoned "What the fuck are you doing?" He had invited her over so he could go down on her, not listen to her be buddy-buddy with his kid sister. But Santana was already back in the living room, her lithe body blocking the television, her hands on her hips. She looked like she meant business, teacher-like, even. Hot._

"_Why?" _

"_Because apparently I'm your sister now and you have to listen to me," Santana smirked, "Come on, hurry up, your innocence is being tainted with skank. How about I make us a bowl of popcorn and we can Netflix _Roman Holiday_? I'll show you what real cinematography is, Sarah," Santana offered. She felt it was kind of her duty to make sure Sarah didn't end up a fuck-up like Puck._

_Now the amused look on Puck's face turned into annoyance. "Sannnn," he whined. What about their plans? He gestured towards his bedroom. Santana gave him a look of disbelief over her shoulder. Santana had already made up her mind to take Sarah under her wing._

"_Really? I'm doing you a favor here, Puckerman. I'm undoing your sister's airwave STDs. But you're welcome to join us," Santana smiled, taking the final word before walking into the kitchen like she owned the place. He, of course, couldn't say no._

* * *

Santana smiled at the thought of the memory. After that day, she had Sarah had become fast friends. She revealed to Sarah all her tricks: make-up, pop culture facts, boys. Well, not everything. Puck would kill her if Santana told Sarah everything she knew.

"Well, I miss her too." Wow, she hadn't seen Sarah in at least a decade. She was an adult now, destined to join the ranks of Judy Fabray, Allison Puckerman, and Isabel Lopez—discontent Lima housewives—if she didn't do something about it. But Santana had faith in Sarah. Sarah had moxie, just like her. She'd get out of there.

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you leave without saying goodbye," he noted. His sly dig didn't go uncaught.

"Don't start," she said, rubbing her temples again. She really didn't want to have this conversation again, because someone was going to end up screaming or crying.

He shrugged. She was the one who didn't ever want to talk about anything, and this was no exception.

"Would you ever consider going back to Lima? Like for a visit?" he offered. Her eyes shot open.

"Why would you even ask that? You know the answer." _No. No fucking way._

"I don't know. I kind of want to. I mean, I miss my ma and my sister." Didn't she want to visit all the places of their most memorable adolescent times? Granted, they weren't all good memories, but still worth remembering. Didn't she want to see if they finally renovated Breadstix? Or if the coffee at the Lima Bean was still way overpriced? Or if Mr. Schue had finally burned his vest collection? It wasn't perfect, but Lima was still their home.

"Well, I don't. Every single person in that town hates me."

"That's not true." It couldn't be; there were 1000 people in that place.

"Yes, it is. They can't stand that I actually did something with my life, and they can't stand that it was with my clothes off even more so. My dad's won't look me in the eye. My mom thinks she's failed as a parent because there's no way her only child is getting into heaven. My parents have pretty much disowned me, and I think that constitutes as ostracism," she said firmly.

* * *

"_How could you do this, Santana?" her father yelled, throwing the magazine on the coffee table. The slap the paper made as it hit the cold glass surface only made Santana flinch, but she could see her mother jump ever so slightly from her spot on the couch._

"_It's not that big of a deal," Santana urged, her eyes flickering to her mother. Isabel remained silent and stoic, her hands folded in her laps and her eyes pointed down permanently._

"_Not that big a deal? Look at this! How can you even look at yourself? For shame, Santana!" her father roared, pointing towards the glossy page. Her model self stood, in a stark white bikini, lying on a faux-sandy beach while shirtless guys played volleyball behind her. For anyone but an avid reader, no one would know the ad was for a travel agency, not scantily clad teenagers._

"_I'm wearing clothes!" Santana protested. Her real self was going to fight back, even if her mother wouldn't._

"_Barely! We give you everything, and this is how you repay us? We pay for your Cheerios expenses, buy you train tickets to the city, even your silly surgery you begged us you needed! I didn't come from Nicaragua to have a daughter like this!"_

"_No, you came from Nicaragua to look for a better life, which is exactly what I'm doing," Santana yelled back. Her father was being such a fucking hypocrite. And he didn't have to pay for those things if he didn't want to, so he had no right to use them against her._

"_Are you saying your life here is inadequate?" He gave his wife a look of disbelief, as if he could not recognize this girl standing in front of him as his daughter. Isabel didn't return the look of shock, but gave her husband a look of sadness, as if to ask him to stop. It didn't work._

"_Look around, daddy! Everyone you know will live and die in this zip code!" cried Santana. There was no way that would be her. She was going to be eighteen in a couple of weeks, and she was going to get the hell out of here. But there was Puck, and Glee Club, and Britt…._

_Her father didn't respond to her comment. She knew it was because he knew it was true, but in true Lopez manner, he wouldn't admit he was wrong. Instead, he said, "This ends today, Santana. No more" with a tone of formality and finality._

"_But daddy, daddy please," she begged. Her own tone went from annoyance and frustration to despair and sadness. Her daddy wouldn't do this to her. No, he was fucking bluffing. She was his little girl, his only child. Like he said, he gave her everything, so why would he stop her from chasing the best?_

"_Stop it, Santana. You embarrass yourself, and you disgrace me." He stormed out of the living room, probably to pour himself another glass of scotch, which would have made it his fifth one that day._

_Santana stayed behind, whimpering. She finally looked up, and gave her mother a dark look. An accusatory one, almost. As if threatening to ask, why didn't you say anything? But of course, Santana already knew why her mother had stayed silent. Isabel Lopez had already accepted defeat in this lifetime. Her daughter? Not so much._

"_Do something, mom!" Santana cried. She promised herself she wouldn't cry, but her dreams were slipping away and taking her mascara was being washed away with them. Her mother was her champion. They would survive her father together, if they worked together._

"_Hush, Santana. There's no use trying. The father is always right." With that, Isabel got up slowly, and followed her husband out._

* * *

"Fine, we won't go then." He knew how hurt she was by her mother's betrayal and her father's abandonment, even if she didn't show it. Santana and Isabel were close in high school, and now just the thought of the word "mother" made her want to scratch someone's eyes out.

"Who said it was ever an option?" she said bitingly.

"What is up with you? Ever since last Tuesday, you've been on edge." He was trying to be nice, trying to be a sensitive and understanding boyfriend. But she obviously couldn't appreciate what she had in front of her.

"It's nothing. I'm stressed out. I'm fine," she snapped, getting up to make herself some tea.

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am," she argued. He was not going to win this one.

But he sure as hell was going to try. "No, you're not. Was it because you cried?"

"No." Her lips were firmly puckered.

"Was it because you admitted you hated your job?"

"No. You're never going to fucking get it, so leave me alone." They were both valid guesses, but revealing neither of those things bothered her that much.

"Can you please just tell me what I did?"

"Of course, you don't even know," she accused. This was just like him.

"Well, I don't know because you won't tell me," he sighed exasperatedly. This was just like her.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes," he dragged out.

"Fine. It was the fucking polyester comment," she threw out there, expecting her words to cut him straight through the ribs and into the heart.

"The polyester thing? Like your robe?" he asked, confused. She was mad at him because he asked what her robe was made out of?

"No, you jackass. I thought you were going to tell me you loved me, okay? And then you go off and start talking shit about polyester and rayon and fabric like you actually give a damn!" she yelled.

He stood dumbfounded. "Really?"

"Forget it," she snapped, walking off with her warm mug of tea. She was stupid; she had overestimated him. Never again.

"No, Santana," he called out, grabbing her by the wrist. He felt some of her tea slosh onto his own wrist and the burning liquid scalded his skin, but he didn't care.

"What? What do you want now, Noah?" she cried, turning around and throwing the still full mug at the kitchen in a rage. The cup exploded with a loud crash on the wall, and the tea dripped down her pristine, white wall in messy trickles. "What can you possibly want to tell me?" she said, her chocolate eyes turned amber with hurt. Their little argument was the same as all their other fights. He had called her out on being closed off, and pushed her buttons until she caved and yelled her confession at him as a last rite, hoping her forced admission would guilt him into never harassing her again.

"I polyester you," he said with a grin, completely unfazed.

"What?" she yelled, looking at him as if he were a crazy person. Like that guy who used to sit outside the library back home. Patches. "Don't be ridiculous. You're not cute." She backed away from you.

"Santana Lopez, I polyester you. I polyester polyester polyester you," he sang walking towards her. He looked and sounded so ridiculous that she couldn't help but feel her anger slowly melt away, chunk by chunk.

"Stop it!" she demanded, but she didn't look so convincing since she was trying not to laugh. Then she suddenly understood what he was trying to say. He really did love her.

"Come on, baby. You can't expect me to know that kind of stuff."

"Yeah, I guess." But it didn't mean she didn't expect him to pleasantly surprise her once in a while. She came down from her anger-induced delirium high. Lesson learned. Don't expect too much, because you're just going to get disappointed. So he wasn't going to say it.

"Sit back down, San. I'm not finished." He pulled out a chair by the kitchen and she obliged.

"I love the way you always bug me about whether or not shampoo bottles are recyclable, even though I've told you five million times they are. I love the way you think the 30 calories you save getting nonfat milk in your Starbucks order is worth a drink that tastes like ass. I love the way you claim that you hate everyone in Lima for hating you, when really, you're just scared you love them. So yeah, Santana. I guess do love you."

"Are you finished?" She stared him down. He nodded and awaited her reaction, tossing his hands up in the air.

"Well, I suppose I polyester you too."

**Questions to think about (and answer if you wanna make my day!):**

**1) So Puck seems to miss Lima, and Santana definitely doesn't. If it came down to it, which would he choose, do you think?  
**

**2) How does Santana fit into the Puckerman home? There's a line in that Sarah flashback that reveals wonders! See if you can find it! And what's the significance of "sis"? Is it just a name? **

***Here's one for the overachievers out there* Go Google what the name Isabel means. What does this reveal about the family structure in the Lopez home and their values? And oh my gosh, poor Isabel Lopez. She's a martyr for her cause, no? ****If you guys haven't noticed, names are a theme in my stories too. **

**Anyhoo, things are getting a little too happy plotwise for my taste, so don't get comfortable. **

**But review! My reviewers know that sometimes when I get a good review, I respond and drop little nuggets of whats to come. So review! **

**But here's a little teaser: Remember Santana likes Audrey Hepburn.**


	16. Chapter 16

**I'm back! It's a juicy one…**

**Fi- I know you said you hoped I wouldn't go for the crazy cliché shock factor when it came to the pregnancy, and I've thought about what you said ever since. I totally agreed with you, and I hope this lived up to those standards.**

**Caitlyn, Rosetta, Rosalie, Jennie, the usuals- I CANNOT WAIT TO HEAR WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT THIS.**

* * *

Santana walked briskly, but the chilly winter air hit her at full blast, despite the Burberry scarf wrapped around her neck. It was nearing a truly New York Christmas, and Santana stopped by a little café for a cup of coffee. Who cared if she was late to dress rehearsal? As long as she wasn't late to the real, live show, it would be okay.

She got in line behind a woman and her young daughter. The woman was frantically searching her bag for some change, while the barista looked annoyed at her for holding up the line.

"Are you sure that card was denied?" the woman asked, rummaging deeper into the tote. It was only when the woman turned on her side a little bit that Santana noticed that the tote was decorated with a US Army logo, with the words "Army Wife" under it. The little girl tugged at her mother's coat, obviously antsy from cold and a lack of hot chocolate.

"Yes, ma'am. Have you found some cash?" the barista deadpanned.

"Just a minute, I'm sure I have some quarters in here…"

Then Santana spoke up, "Here, let me get it." She pushed past the woman and handed the man her AmEx, before telling him her own order. The barista just looked glad to receive any type of payment and didn't refuse.

But the woman did. "Oh, I can't let you do that."

"Really, it's fine. It won't break the bank, promise," she joked. It was obvious that this woman didn't know who she was, and she was glad.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. It's the least I can do, considering what your husband does for this country," Santana pointed out, gesturing towards the woman's bag.

"Well, thank you then. Not many people would do that. Do you have someone in the forces?" the woman asked while they waited for their drinks.

"Sort of. My boyfriend used to be," Santana admitted. She wondered for a moment if Puck would ever consider going back to the military. She wasn't sure if he could, but she also wasn't sure if he would want to if given the opportunity. She didn't understand why anyone would put themselves in that kind of danger so selflessly, but she didn't have to. She appreciated him the most she could, but without experiencing war firsthand, she didn't know if she could be there for him fully. He didn't like to talk about the army, and she didn't prod him because it was easier for the both of them. She wouldn't understand, and he preferred her that way.

"Well, if you two ever decide to get married, make sure he promises you no more tours. They all say they're done when they get out, but next thing you know, you're going to end up like me here, without a husband half the time and raising a daughter that just misses her daddy," the woman said with a chortle.

"If we ever get married, I'll be sure to let him know." Santana laughed it off. The possibility of the two of them lasting that long? The possibility that he would ever go back to the army? The possibility that she would be left alone again? The possibility that he could get hurt?

It was all absolutely outrageous. But kind of terrifying.

Before the woman could ask about her again, Santana reached up and grabbed her now-ready drink.

"Well, I have to go. Bye now, take care," she said hastily and walked away as the woman returned the goodbye.

She walked the five blocks to the venue, and before she got five steps in the door, an assistant ran up to her.

"Santana, where have you been? Get naked!"

* * *

"_I'm dating Puckerman," she explained flatly._

"_No, you're getting naked with Puckerman," Quinn replied pointedly. Bitch. Who asked her?_

"_You know what, Q? For someone who claims to have her legs locked at the knees, I could've said the exact same thing about you last year." _

_It was a low blow, because she saw Quinn flinch ever so slightly, but it wasn't like she wanted to bring it up either. Still, it was the truth, and neither of them had forgotten (or forgiven) it yet. Either way, both of them resented it the fact that this was just one more thing they had to share. _

* * *

Puck walked around the apartment, toothbrush in one hand, _The Things They Carried_ in hardback in the other. Santana had been gone a couple hours now, and he was bored. She would be home soon though. But at least he had his book to keep him company. Ever since Santana got back from Italy, he had been going through his list of books to read, books that they were assigned in high school but he had never bothered to care with. But now he realized the enlightenment and importance in them. Wow, he was proud of himself. Look at that character growth. Him, of all people, reading.

He walked down the hallway towards the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste, but as he made an abnormally long stride, he felt the sole of his foot come in contact with a slinky material. Before he could look down to see what he stepped on, he was already on the floor. He rolled over and saw that he had tripped over Santana's stupid silk robe. God damn. Santana really needed to pick up her shit.

His face was throbbing after having slammed into the hardwood floor, not to mention the sharp corner of his book. He reached up and discovered he was bleeding. He walked to the pink-decorated bathroom, rinsed his mouth, and started looking for Santana's Band-Aids. Where did she keep them?

He opened up the mirror to peek into the medicine cabinet. All mini bottles and samples of random beauty products. No luck.

Maybe under the sink. He kneeled down and opened up the little door. A rush of empty shampoo bottles (because she never knew what to do with them, since she was always unsure if they were recyclable or not), loose hair rollers, and random boxes flowed out. Well, at least he found the Band-Aids (Hello Kitty ones, no less), even if he was surrounded in a pile of her junk now. He better clean it up, or else Santana would bitch at him about it all night when she came back. Like she could talk though, since it was her messiness that got him in this position anyways.

He started to clear the area in the space under her sink, brushing the remaining items to the side so he could just shove everything back in. But as the back of his hand stroked all of the plastic objects, he felt it hit a cold, metal object. What the fuck? He rummaged around, and brought his head down to get a better look.

It was a box.

He pulled it out, and saw that it was quite old. It looked like it hadn't been opened in a while. He shook it around a bit, and heard a clanging from inside. It wasn't locked, but Puck was apprehensive about opening it. Was it considered an invasion of privacy? But he lived here too, and what was hers was his too, right? Still, what if it was so important that Santana wanted to hide it away? But then again, if it was that important, why would she leave it in a corner and never touch it again?

Unfortunately, his curiosity got the best of him and he decided to open it. He was never good with willpower anyways. And she had always been his weakness. It made perfect sense to open it.

He snapped the hinge and lifted the top off the metal box. There was a photograph that was slightly blurry, a sign that it was more than a decade old. It was of the two of them, actually, at the homecoming dance, before they even joined Glee Club, before emotions and the future and obligations complicated everything. He had his hand way too low down her backless red mini, and she looked radiant, despite the tacky photo background.

In the bottom of the box, there was an old pregnancy test, the kind you had to pee on, and it was a positive one. And an ultrasound picture of a fetus.

His heart skipped a couple of beats before dropping into his stomach and it was like he was an archeologist uncovering a great underground discovery. Except he felt way shittier.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

He frantically searched the bottom of the ultrasound for a caption, hoping that maybe, Santana had stolen these things from Quinn, maybe as a guilty pleasure kind of thing to one-up her. But no, the tiny print on the bottom: Lopez, S. 5 weeks. 12/2/2011.

He quickly did the math in his head (he suddenly realized how good at arithmetic he could be when it really mattered), and his calculations reaffirmed his suspicions. They were together then. Yeah, she cheated all the time and fucked around, but there was no one else she could have been with. He was positive, because he didn't measure time in terms of hours and minutes and days and years. He measured it in terms of Santana. She was the chronological marker in his life. They were good then, so it was the beginning of senior year. Late 2011.

Which meant, she had been pregnant with his baby. And conveniently decided not to tell him. But there was no way she had the baby, that he would have noticed…

That bitch.

He felt like punching a wall, but instead he walked out calmly into the living room with the box, sat on the couch. While he waited for her to return, he gradually collected all the anger that was bubbling up inside of him and resisted letting it out. He was going to save it in a little spot in his throat and hold it there. Save it for when she got home, save it for when it really mattered.

Which turned out to be shorter than he expected, because she busted through the door about twenty minutes later, having given him plenty of time to digest the news.

"Oh my god, you wouldn't believe how many times I had to get naked today, and no, I'm not being sexual," she sighed as she dropped her bag on the kitchen table, the contents of it sprawling onto the glass. When she finally noticed he still had his back turned to her and he hadn't said anything back, she walked into the living room area and stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. "Way to acknowledge my presence here, Puckerman."

Then she saw what he was holding in his lap.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. (That seemed like to be the theme of the day, no?)

"What, what are you doing with that?" she stammered. The ground started to shake and it was not because she had been wearing six-inch heels all day. Her exhaustion and fed-up-ness was quickly replaced with fear. He was never supposed to find that. She was never supposed to have to deal with that again. Not that she could ever forget about it though…

He looked up at her darkly, and for the first time in her life, she was scared of him. Not scared of _him_ actually, but scared of how he would react, what he would do. What he would do to her, to _them_.

"When were you going to tell me? Huh? In another decade, maybe? Jesus fucking Christ, Santana. Were you _ever_ going to tell me?" he said evenly.

"I—I-" she didn't know how to respond, because she honestly never thought she would ever be having this conversation with him.

"You're not even going to explain yourself?" he demanded in disbelief, standing up abruptly to square off with her. She jumped backwards at his outburst. She didn't say anything and braced herself for the punishment she deserved.

"Why wouldn't you tell me? You didn't even give me a chance! How could you keep something like this from me?" he cried.

Then she finally found her voice, "It wouldn't have mattered." It was shaky at first, but it had the famous Santana fight behind it.

"Wouldn't have mattered? We had a fucking kid!" he accused, looking at her like she was the lowest scum of the earth. It was the first time he had said it out loud, so direct like that. Now that he had acknowledged it, she would have to too. There was no equivocating around this one.

"Don't get all Catholic on me, I get enough of that from my mother," she snapped, but instantly realized the wrong in her choice of words.

"Are you really fighting me on this one? You went and fucking killed our baby!" he raged. She had no right to do anything that she did, not without him at least. She was a murderer.

"I killed it? No, you can say I'm a bitch for everything else because I deserve all of that, but you don't get to say that. It died on its own, okay? It died on its own," she repeated, breaking into tears.

* * *

_She awoke in the middle of the night in a panic. She was drenched in sweat and only realized that she couldn't focus her vision that she was shaking. She knew something was wrong and Santana felt something warm pooling by her abdomen. She quickly jumped up and turned on the crooked lamp on her night table._

_Her suspicious were confirmed. She was sitting in a pile of blood. _

_Maybe it was the fifteen basket tosses she did in practice last week, maybe God knew that they didn't have a shot in hell at surviving if they had a kid, or maybe it was even the crazy amount of orange juice she had been drinking inadvertently lately because she heard somewhere (the Internet) that excess Vitamin C caused miscarriage._

_She felt a little sad, she supposed. She felt a little empty, she supposed. But above all, she felt relieved. _

_Did that make her a bad person?_

_Evidently not, because her prayers had been answered._

* * *

"Why would I bother to tell you, if it wouldn't have changed anything except for making everything worse? There wasn't a baby. Just a 7 week fetus that died," she cried.

"You still should have told me, I had a right to know and I had a say! It was my kid too!" He did. He was the father of that baby. He had contributed to ½ of that baby. He didn't like how they were already referring to it in past tense, even though it would have been ten years old by now, if things were different. It would have been old enough now to play Little League or sing every Journey song.

"There's no way in hell I would have had that kid anyways, and you know would have hated me for it. I wasn't going to let it fuck everything up between us when we were going so good. As much as it hurt me, I know what happened with Beth hurt you a million times worse, and I wasn't going to make you go through that again for nothing. Did you think I wanted to keep this secret? I did it for us," she explained in desperation.

"No, don't you dare make yourself the hero, don't you dare try to justify what you did," he gritted through his teeth, "What you did was wrong and you're too immature to even see it." Or was he too immature, too blinded by bitterness to see his immaturity?

"Why is that so wrong? Why was it so terrible of me to not burden you with a problem that didn't even exist anymore? So you could go off on your stupid redeeming babydaddy rampage? So you could turn me into your second chance Quinn Fabray?" She knew she should have been swallowing her pride and just let him rip into her, because she had indeed did something horrible, but she couldn't stop defending herself to distance herself from the situation. It was a defense mechanism she had built up over years of letdowns. She would never stop being a fighter, even if it was for the wrong side.

"Are you seriously mad at me right now? You're unbelievable. You're fucking unbelievable." It wasn't the first time anyone had ever said that to her, but this time came without that kicking sense of accomplishment. He started to head towards the door.

"Wait, it wasn't supposed to happen like this," she cried, following him, trying to retract all the snippy comments she had just made in a last ditch effort to keep him.

"No, Santana. It wasn't supposed to happen at all, and that's the problem," he said finally, giving her one last disgusted look.

"No, no, don't leave," she sobbed, trying to grab onto him. She sounded pathetic, she was begging, she was hysterical. He shook her off while he gathered his wallet and coat. He left his keys behind.

* * *

_His phone blasted at full speed while he laid in a state of torpor on his bed, reading the latest issue of GQ that he had swiped from his dentist's waiting room last week when he went in for a filling. He automatically knew it had to be her, because honestly, no one called him. Texting was for the few casual friends he had, and booty calls were a rarity these days. No one wanted the Puckerone when he was "looking perpetually mopey" according to Ms. Pillsbury, who had given him a pamphlet on depression shortly afterwards. He found his phone hiding in the folds of his comforter and held it to his ear._

"_Hey," he greeted, trying not to sound too excited. They hadn't talked since last Tuesday, when they had Skyped. She seemed distant. She wouldn't talk about New York, even though she had been gone for two months. _

_Only one more month until she came home. Not that he would admit he was counting down the days._

"_Hey." Her response was dejected and flat, but then again, every time she opened her mouth, she sounded blasé and tired of it all. It was a Santana-ism, one he missed witnessing in real life._

_They made small talk, and talked about the most trivial things, like the latest WMHS gossip and which mall stores had closed out because well, it was Lima, Ohio, and exciting things didn't exactly happen there. They both knew they were growing apart, but they didn't know how to assuage the situation other than to keep going._

_It was only until they had exhausted their list of remedial topics that he asked her when she was coming home exactly. "Not that you're missing anything, but when are you coming home? Miss you, Lo." It was as genuine as he was going to get, and if she had been with him at that moment, her heart would have skipped a beat._

"_Listen. About that..."_

"_Yeah?" _

"_I'm going to stay here longer than I expected." _

"_Like how long?" _

"_Forever." Her answer was short and fleeted, as if she huffed it out in a breath rather than actually speaking the words._

"_What? Wait, you're coming back in a month right?" _

"_No. I don't think I ever will, actually."_

"_Santana! You can't do this!" _

"_Stop yelling at me, you're making this harder than it needs to be!" she cried. Why couldn't he just say "okay" and hang up the phone? Why did he care so much now, when all the other times, he didn't care what she did or what other people did to her? If he wanted her there so much, he could have said that before any of this shit went down. She wished it didn't have to happen like this, but it did, because she wasn't strong enough and too proud to go back and do it in person._

"_You're the one making everything harder. You're supposed to come back! You're supposed to be here with me. And now you just spring this on me that you're not coming back when you promised you would?"_

"_Oh come on, you knew it would happen eventually. One of us is always leaving the other." She made it seem like she was leaving him behind, not her life in Lima, even though when in reality, the two were synonymous. So their relationship was over, not just her old life._

"_No, not like this."_

"_I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Goodbye, Puck. Good luck with everything, really. Good luck." The way she was repeating things gave her words a tone of formality and finality, and he knew that she was done. He hung up the phone on her for the last time, and sat in silence on the bed. He had been abandoned again._

_He couldn't stop her from leaving, because she was already gone._

* * *

"Now you know what it feels like, huh? Like no matter what you say, nothing will change the other person's mind." They had always functioned this way. No matter the time, situation, or circumstances-in every ebb and flow of their relationship, one of them was always holding on tighter. Both had held that position before, but never at the same time. And now, it was her.

"Where are you going?" she screamed. He couldn't leave her behind, not again. She was always alone. Maybe this was her punishment for the one time she left everyone else behind. But what was she going to do without him? She needed him because she loved him, not the other way around, which was how she knew this was real.

"It doesn't matter. You wouldn't come if you knew."

And then he was gone.

**PHEW! Got that all over with. I've been planning this chapter since the very beginning, and I know its not as well written as the others, but Ive been in a really creative funk lately. But now we can move forward, now that you know the whole story, or at least the important bits. **

**Think about it…(and tell me your thoughts if you want to make me really really happy)**

**1) Is Santana a bad person for what she did about the baby? She says she did it for the two of them, but she kind of did it to hold on to Puck selfishly too. But on the other hand, is Puck making a mountain out of a molehill? Is this even an important issue? Like Santana said, does it even matter since there was no baby and there wasn't a point in putting the two of them through that? Are you Team Puck or Team Santana? (I'm a little of both, because I see both sides, but then again, I think of this crazy stuff)**

**2) Pointless, insignificant question that I'm just curious about: Where do YOU think Puck went? And what do you think she'll do about it?**

**Super bonus) Who knows what _The Things They Carried_ is about?  
**


	17. Chapter 17

**Wow, what an overwhelming response! That was kind of like the climax of the story, but I'm planning on another intense story arc. Dont worry guys, I'll keep you entertained, I hope. I loved reading all your reviews. I always say this, but you guys know this story better than I do. You constantly inspire me, so thank you.**

**Also on that note, is there a reader named MacKenzie out there? I know you reviewed some of my other stories I think, and I have always valued your opinion since you seem to read really closely. I would love to hear what you think.  
**

He really had no idea what he was doing with his life. He'd spent the last Tuesday and Wednesday wallowing in a pit of sorrow, self-pity, and anger in a hotel room, calling room service every couple of hours for another bottle of Jack Daniels. It was after the second night of doing that that he realized he needed to be around people, because this wasn't healthy. He had jumped on a plane and went out to Minnesota to meet up with Eddie, who was pleasantly surprised to see him, but he could tell that he was overstaying his "annual fishing boat visit" when Eddie's wife Minnie asked if he was going to be going home for Christmas, even though it was fairly obvious that he was Jewish.

So now he was on a plane home, it was Christmas and he was sitting in an airport all alone waiting for his flight to take off. Nobody knew he was coming, and nobody knew he was gone. For all they knew, he was still in New York with Santana.

Santana.

Right. She didn't know anything because they hadn't spoken since. His initial shock had cooled, but he wasn't ready to see her yet. He saw her side of the story, honestly. He knew she did it for her, so she wouldn't have to give up her dreams of leaving. He knew she did it for him, so he wouldn't have to go through Beth again. He knew she did it for the two of them, so they could stay in their ignorant high school bliss. He knew she did it for their baby, who didn't deserve two parents who didn't know what the fuck they were doing—in life and with each other.

What he didn't know was why she didn't tell him. He would have tried to convince her to keep it, that he would give Santana, but there was no way anyone could have convinced Santana when she had already made up her mind. It would have been a lost cause…

Wait, why was he even thinking about this? There was no baby. There was no problem. She saved him the burden, the hurt. So why did he feel like shit? He told himself that none of this matter, but the seed of doubt had already been planted.

If she didn't bother to tell him about this—this huge deal—what else was she hiding, and what else would she keep from him? They were supposed to be a partnership.

The point being, this entire situation was FUBAR. Sometimes he wished he was still back overseas, because there sure of a hell was way less thinking to do.

He rubbed his eyes again and focused on the television screen, which was replaying the Victoria's Secret fashion show. He saw that girl "Katya," who Santana had invited over to the apartment a couple of times for drinks. Both times, he had ducked out to avoid the interrogation by her "work friends." Katie was cute, in that All-American way, but was certainly no Santana. Katie beckoned the crowd, in a way that left everyone wanting more of the shy girl.

But Santana? She left it all out there.

His girl could work it. She strutted down that catwalk like she owned it, and engaged everyone in the audience (and millions of viewers at home, he was sure). She lured in the audience and sold them the dream, the fantasy of being a sexpot. Too bad it was all a sham. Even though Santana was a professional, who did not let personal issues affect her work life, he could tell that something was off with her. The ordinary person wouldn't have noticed, but he could see a blankness in her eyes.

* * *

"_Santana? Santana? Are you okay?" Sasha asked, waving her slender arm in front of Santana's face. Santana snapped out of her haze, and blinked a couple of times to orient herself before responding._

"_What?" she said quietly. She had zoned out for the last five minutes, thinking about next week—how she would react, what she would say, etc._

"_I said, are you okay? You're not on some weird new prescription drug, are you?"_

"_No, I'm not. I'm fine, just nervous. My first ever Victoria's Secret runway show, you know?" That was true, she was nervous. Just not about the runway. Actually, her mother was coming to New York for a surprise visit next week. It would have been the first time she had seen her mother in over four years. She didn't want to get too excited, in case her mom bailed last minute (which was a very probable possibility, since Isabel was only stopping by after a wedding in New Jersey, without the knowledge of her husband). But Santana missed her mom, and she wanted to hear all about Lima (namely him). Maybe her mom would tell her enough to inadvertently convince Santana to go back home, because Santana knew she was on the verge of just quitting. The only thing anchoring her to New York was her pride._

"_Okay then. Well, you better not show it when we get out there," Sasha snipped. _

"_Of course. Work first." _

_Life could come later. _

* * *

"Oh god, Katie. He hates me so fucking much. He hates me, and he's never going to forgive me," Santana wailed into her cell phone. Santana had holed herself up in the apartment for the last few days, in case he returned. Which of course, he hadn't.

"You can't think that. I mean, he came all the way to New York for you. He just needs his space, I'm sure. He'll cool off. It's Christmas, enjoy yourself."

"I don't celebrate holidays, Katie. And no, don't you see? That whole fucking decade we spent apart was space! How much space does a guy need? He's supposed to be at that stupid midlife crisis point where he doesn't want to take any shit for granted anymore and beckon at my every call!"

"Santana, you do realize you did something wrong, right?"

"Of course! Why would you think that?"

"Because you're whining about it like you deserve his forgiveness in ten seconds. What you did wasn't the most horrible thing ever, but it does warrant forgiveness."

"Shit, I know, I know. But I just really need him, okay? I haven't had an orgasm in a week," Santana deadpanned.

"Santana, get real. You're acting like you can't function because you miss him, which is a big fat lie. You need him because you love him. Admit it."

"Fine. He knows all that sentimental crap already, Katie. Sex is the only thing that's kept him crawling back through the years, and if it fails me now, then I know we're screwed. It's fucking over. I should just call Ilario. Fly to Italy for the weekend. Maybe even leave and never come back," Santana rambled. It was true, that was her style. She fled when things got a little tough, and right now, she was beyond terrified that he wouldn't ever come back. If he hadn't called her yet, he probably would never do so.

Katie seemed to be processing Santana's confession, because Katie stayed quiet on the line. Was that all there was to Puck and Santana's relationship? Yes, they loved each other and they lived with one another and had been through so much shit they knew they wouldn't have survived without each other. But at the core of all that was their insane sexual infatuation with one another, like magnets. They just couldn't stay away, and now, it was all they could do. So if their foundation had been stymied, didn't that mean that their little idyllic house they had built in the middle of the chaos would soon crumble?

"You can get through this." Katie figured it was the only thing she could say. She deliberately left out an antecedent for her pronouns, for she really didn't know who the "you" she was referring to. It could have been Noah and Santana together. Again, they had been through so much that she knew this was just another test from God they could pass, but whether or not both Noah and Santana had the willpower to fight for it remained a mystery. Then again, if he never came back, Katie also knew for a fact that Santana could bounce back. Maybe she wouldn't be the same person ever again, but she could get by.

"No, this time, I don't think we can."

* * *

_Spotted: Santana Madison leaving her apartment late Christmas night. TMZ trailed her to a local bar, where patrons claimed she drank alone at the bar. "She looked real lonely, and wouldn't talk to anyone, not even this girl who asked for her autograph," said one witness. Madison, who although is a favorite American model, has had the reputation of being a cold personality, seeing as she reveals very little about her personal life. Sources claim that she and her longtime boyfriend have called it quits, which may have caused the change in her mood. Others say she is just worried about her 5-year contract with Victoria's Secret coming to a close. Either way, could it be the return of the ice queen?_

* * *

He finally landed in Lima several hours later, and the Lima airport (which was really just the Dayton airport with a taxi service) was even more deserted than the one in Minnesota. It was the day after Christmas by now, and he was sure his fellow Ohio-ans were frantically swarming the local Wal-Mart for post-Christmas deals.

He walked solemnly to the baggage claim, already regretting coming with each step. But there wasn't like anywhere else he could have gone, and seeing a familiar face would have been really nice.

"Noah?" he heard, a voice from behind him. He turned around and came face to face to a pretty blonde, with her hair cut in a clean bob and her hands clasped over her swollen abdomen.

Could it be?

His eyes roamed to her collarbone, which was made visible by the bateau neck of her A-line dress. Never mind that it was December, she was still wearing a knee-length dress with a small shrug to cover her shoulders. A little gold cross hung on a delicate chain, resting against her pale skin.

Yup. It was her.

"Well, if it isn't Quinn Fabray…" he started.

"Actually, it's Hudson now, remember? You sent us a toaster for the wedding? Lucy Hudson," she said, giving him a polite smile, as if the thought of being known as "Quinn Fabray" pained her. He nodded as if he understood, understood why she didn't go by her childhood name anymore. "You know, Finn's around here somewhere. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

"Right. Are you guys leaving or going?"

"Neither. My sister just left. She came to help out with the boys, because well, as you can see, I can't really do much these days," she said demurely, gesturing toward her baby bump. She gave him another one of those polite smiles.

"Yeah. What is this, your third now? You guys popping them out like rabbits."

"Actually it's our fourth. Another boy. Go figure. I'm never going to get the daughter I want," she joked, without realizing what she had just said.

Beth. She was a daughter. Their daughter, if not only for a short moment, but Beth had been their daughter at one point. How was it possible that two people, who shared the most powerful bond possible—two people who had a child together—had absolutely nothing to say to each other? He'd heard before that a boy will always love his first love, but the forced state of his and Quinn's relationship seriously challenged the idiom.

"Well, here comes Finn," he said, breaking the silence. He saw Finn come closer, and recognize him, then he saw Finn break into a trot-jog like pace, before coming over to give him a hug.

"Hey, man! You didn't tell me you were going to be home! How've you been?" Finn said after clapping him on the back. It was strange, how men could not see each other for years and go back into their normal routine of man-hugs and loud shouts, whilst women were the complete opposite.

"Good, good. Congratulations on the baby."

"Thanks. Did you just get back? Your ma must be so excited to see you, she's been so worried all the time. Everyone's so proud of you, man." Proud of _him_? Why? He hadn't done anything. He didn't go to college, he had no profession—no job, no less. He hadn't done anything at all that was merit-worthy. All he did was run halfway around the country and blow the brains of out of anyone in sight for a cause he didn't believe in.

"No, I've been out of the service for a couple of months now actually." Yes, that was a rather diplomatic answer. He didn't think neither Quinn nor Finn would appreciate his actual thoughts.

"A couple of months now? Really?" inquired Quinn, "Where've you been?"

"New York."

"New York, doing what?" Quinn asked, scrunching her nose, as if she just had no idea why anyone would want to live in such a boisterous, vulgar place.

"Shit! I think I left my keys over in the bathroom! I'll be right back, honey," Finn said, nodding towards Puck and giving Quinn a kiss on the cheek. Quinn squirmed uncomfortably at the show of affection and focused her attention back at Puck, only to stare at his one duffel bag as if it was the most interesting thing in this entire airport. She looked as if she was sitting unmoved on a hot waffle iron with a spatula up her ass, not like she had just been kissed by her husband.

"Uh, I've just been living with Santana, hanging out, having a good time."

"Santana Lopez?"Quinn scrunched her nose yet again, as if there were a foul smell in the vicinity, not just stale airport air, "Why would you do that?"

"Because we're friends," he replied calmly. More than friends actually.

"But why? Why would such a distinguished man like you want to be in the company of someone like her?"

"I'm hardly a distinguished man, Quinn, and she was your friend too. And I have no idea what you mean by 'someone like her'." It was the truth, on both accounts. He had nothing to his name: no children (although he wasn't really supposed to be thinking about that right now), no property, no titles. And although the both of them would deny it, Quinn and Santana had once been best friends, or rather best frenemies. They kept each other on their toes, and pushed themselves to be the best they could be, only to beat out the other. In fact, he almost credited their competitive friendship as to why Santana had been so successful.

"Well, you know. She was a bitch to us while she was here, and now she's gone and nobody cares. Her job is being a professional slut. She's too embarrassed to even show her face in Lima," Quinn harrumphed, speaking about Santana as if she was something one would scrape off the bottom of a refrigerator, not a real, live person.

"Don't be ridiculous and don't you dare talk about Santana like that. She's one of us," he argued. He might not have been on friendly terms with Santana right then, but he was still going to defend her till the day he died. Now that was a cause worth fighting for.

"No, she's not. She never fit in here, and she won't ever. She still has no class. She's only charmed you with sex, as usual." The moment he had said Santana, Quinn had known the two of them were more or less "together," because honestly, the two losers had been inseparable since middle school. For Puck, the worst part of Quinn's attack wasn't the toxic words, but the tone she used. It was the same patient, quiet tone Quinn used on her young children, with a blockade of fury hidden under the kindness.

"You know what, Quinn? She's done something, at least. She's good at something at least, and she went for it. What have you done with your life? Acting like some Stepford wife and walking around with a self-righteous chip on your shoulder. Your husband just kissed you on the cheek and you act like he just showed me a picture of the two of you having sex. You forget who you are, Quinn Fabray."

"I told you, it's Lucy. Now you stop being ridiculous. I am a loving mother and wife with the title of Lima's best realtor. My life is fabulous. You could even take that all away, and I would still be the head bitch in this town," she added with a tone of finality. Quinn was determined to get the last word, like she had done her entire life.

"Don't act like you're better than the rest of us. You still shop at JCPenney like everyone else and heat up Hamburger Helper. You might not agree with her lifestyle, but Santana has more class than you ever will." It was true. Santana had been to practically every continent, had clothes given to her by every designer, and ate things from restaurants he couldn't even pronounce. Where had she learned this sophistication, this elegance, when everyone else they grew up with was the complete opposite? He had asked her once and she had winked, claiming that you couldn't buy class. You were just born with it.

"The fact is, when Santana comes back, and she will one of these days, she's going to knock you off your high horse without a warning. So you keep on living in your fool's paradise because when she comes home, she's going to own this town like it's hers to take. And I, for one, cannot wait." It sounded more threatening than he had intended, but it was the truth. No one could resist Santana. No one.

The thought of Santana returning to Lima made Quinn's lips, which were previously fixed in a firm horizontal line, form a perfectly round, puckered O.

Yes, this was the town that built him, and her for that matter. Yes, these were the people who he would never forget and would always love, especially Quinn. But now was the perfect time for him to leave, he thought. Because somewhere along the way, somewhere along the way of hanging out with Santana, he too, had outgrown this town.

**Questions to think about: (And answer if you want to really make me happy)**

**1. Consider Katie's sentiment. It is undeniable that the foundation of Puck and Santana's relationship is purely physical and based on sex. But they have built on it to a somewhat healthy romantic relationship. So if their foundation has crumbled, does that mean their entire relationship that came after has no chance either? Or is the relationship strong enough to not need the foundation anymore?**

**2. Consider the dichotomy in Quinn and Santana's positions in society. It's the age old paradigm: big fish in little pond vs. little fish in big pond. Quinn is head bitch, but of Lima. Santana is a star in her own right, but it's nothing compared to the calibers of other New York personalities. Which is better? Remember, Quinn doesn't know any better because she's never left the "pond," but Santana can grow until she becomes the big fish in the big pond (which she kind of has).**

**Also, how am I doing literary-wise? What am I good at writing, and what do I need to work on? Do tell.**

**Review!  
**


	18. Chapter 18

**I have returned my dears. So this chapter is again, a little one-note, but stick with it, because this needs to be done! And I realize you've seen that kitchen scene before, this is deliberate! Enjoy. Oh, and check out my new oneshot, Baby Talk!  
**

"Do you really have to go? Don't leave me here, Noah," Sarah begged, pacing herself beside her older brother, the heels of her slightly elevated ballet flats tapping a staccato beat on the airport floor.

"Yeah, I do, squirt. Got some unfinished business," he sighed, reaching the appropriate airport gate. He tried to resist going back to New York, but it had been three weeks. Enough was enough. He'd spent the holidays with his family, people who would love him unconditionally, in a town where he was worshipped.

His ma had already done enough of the begging.

"She can wait! She's waited this long, just stay another week," Sarah cried. What was that thing Nana Connie used to say? "Let the cake cool before you frost it?" What the hell did that mean anyways? All he knew was that he missed Santana, even after the baggage she dumped on him before he left. And it might not have been the right time for their relationship to return, but it was the right time for him.

"Sorry, Sarah. But I'll get Santana to send you some free clothes or something, okay? I'll make it up to you. Bye. Love you."

"Fine. Bye. Love you too." She embraced her older brother a final time, and he walked through the terminal, on his way into another world.

* * *

_No one had come to see her off, those motherfuckers. No one, except for him and Brittany, who didn't really count because that girl was practically a continuation of Santana. He knew she was putting up a brave front, but he could tell she was saddened that her parents hadn't been the ones to drive her to the airport, that no one cared enough to come say goodbye. She kissed Brittany on both cheeks, and they did their pinky linking thing._

"_I guess this is it, Lopez," he said when it was his turn._

"_I guess so, Puckerman."_

"_Go hard in New York. Bring back wild stories and good booze."_

"_Okay. I don't know how many crazy stories I can get in three months, but I'll save them for you." She leaned forward and gave him an uncustomary kiss on the lips. For a couple that was undefined, it was a very defined gesture._

"_Jesus, what will I do without you, Santana?" He wasn't just referring to sex, but she took it that way, because that was all he knew._

"_Call up Brittany," she laughed. His eyes bulged at the suggestion. Why did she say that now? When all the other times he'd asked, she'd cursed him out._

"_Joking. That was a joke," she said gravely. He peered into her brown eyes. "Seriously. You touch her, and I'll kill the both of you." She didn't want Brittany to be anyone but hers, and even more so, she didn't want him with anyone else._

"_You got it. Don't let random guys take you come. Be careful, okay?" he said to her, dead in the eye._

"_Got it." She mocked a salute and turned around to walk into the terminal. He turned to male flight attendant standing at the counter and said to him, "Take care of her, okay? She's precious cargo; she's going to be a star." He saw her sneak a smile._

"_All right," the attendant replied. _

"_And give her all the vodka she asks for. But no scotch, that makes her cry." She turned around and laughed, sharing one final look with him. And then she disappeared, on her way to the Big Apple._

_It was only on his drive home that he realized she hadn't bothered to say goodbye. But then again, that wasn't either of them's style. They were sure to see each other again, because there was nothing one of them could do that would get rid of the other one that easily._

* * *

"Hey." Puck was the first to say something, only a minute after walking through the apartment door.

"Hey. Have you eaten dinner?" she asked, approaching him. It was eight o clock, East Coast time. Never mind that she hadn't seen him in two weeks, she was still concerned about his hunger.

"No, I guess not." He dropped his bag on the floor, and usually she would have yelled at him for it, but she supposed that in this situation, the less she talked the better.

"Well, here. Have some leftovers," she gestured to the gourmet pizza she had on the table for him. Arugula and pancetta and all that shit he didn't know existed before he had met her. He sat down at the table, and she did too, facing him.

"We need to stop meeting like this," she said quietly, attempting to break to the unspoken ice between the two of them.

He only grunted.

"How was Lima?" she tried again, attempting to be more cheerful this time. She wasn't going to acknowledge the fact that he had been gone nearly three weeks, leaving her alone and fucking terrified about the state of their relationship, and she certainly wasn't going to acknowledge the fact that she missed him. It was kind of good though, to have all that time alone. To have that breathing room.

"Fine." He didn't ask how she knew he went to Lima, but he didn't care. He just figured she _knew_.

"Quinn?" She didn't know why, but whenever she thought of Lima, her thoughts went first to Puck, then Quinn.

"Bitch." She let out a nervous giggle, because she just couldn't help it when it came to that girl.

"Finn?"

"Pussywhipped." She laughed freely, and he joined in unexpectedly. It was _so_ Finn. "I saw your mom at the grocery store."

She stopped laughing. Why would he even mention that? "Yeah? How was she?" she added dryly.

"Fine. She looks older. Slumped over waiting in line," he said. Isabel had aged decades since the last time he saw her, and she looked a little defeated. He had thought about going up to her and saying hi, but decided against it when he had noticed she was moving her lips silently the way she did when she was praying to the Virgin.

"Probably from all that kneeling she does at her fucking prie dieu."

"Hey, don't talk about your mom like that. She cares about you," he defended. Isabel and Santana didn't have that great of a relationship as of now, but still, for the first sixteen years of Santana's life, Isabel had been tried to be the best mother she could be.

"No, she cares about my soul," Santana retorted, "She doesn't give a fuck what happens to me. I could burn at the stake, or die jumping off a cliff, as long as I've confessed my sins."

He didn't respond to get out of confirming or denying.

"What did your mother have to say when she found out what I did?" She changed the subject, to get out of talking about her own mother. She wanted to know what Allison thought, out of curiosity. The woman already hated her; what other terrible things did she have to say about Santana? And Santana knew that this final secret, final deed would have ended any sort of hope for a relationship between Allison and her.

"I didn't tell her," he replied without looking up.

"You didn't?" she stammered. Why? He was so angry; he must have had to tell someone. "I'm sorry. I know I already said that, what else do you want?"

"Actually, no you didn't, Santana." All she did was justify her actions and try to latch herself onto a sinking ship. And when she realized it wasn't working, she just jumped off and gave up to wait it out.

"I'm saying it now, baby." She never used terms of endearment when it came to men. Never. But he was an exception.

"I know," he said a moment after. "And I know you didn't mean to do any of it. You just didn't know any better. You were young and stupid. We both were."

Well, if he knew all of that, then why did he make her say all that shit?

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?" she said quietly, eyes cast downward. He pushed away his now empty plate. He got up and walked around to her side of the table.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said as he extended his arm to her. She jumped up and walked into his body. He didn't automatically wrap his arms around her like he did in these types of situations, and let her just stand there next to him, pressed up against his body. She could hear his heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. They were creshendoing now, leading up to the grand finale. It was all in her head, of course, but it was fucking real.

"We're good?"

"We're good, Lo."

It was all she needed to hear. She jumped up at him and he was thrown aback, but caught her nonetheless.

"About fucking time, Puckerman." She knew he was going to have to stop being a little bitch about the whole situation the moment she realized she needed to stop acting like a whiny girl who couldn't live without her man. She brought her face level to his and couldn't resist one of those stupid grins she got on her face whenever she thought about him in secret. She reached out and met his lips with her own.

"By the way, a package came for you," she said, breaking the kiss, "It's on the counter." She plopped down from his arms. He walked over to the counter where Santana's stash of packages and holiday gifts were no doubt, molded into a mountain. All free swag from companies, he assumed, because as far as he knew, Santana didn't really celebrate holidays. He'd have to pluck a few for Sarah.

"Where?" He certainly wasn't going to dig through the whole pile.

"Next to that huge one some obsessed fan sent me," she gestured at the giant box with fragile written all over it.

"What did he send you?" He assumed all her fans were men, peeking in. It was a giant scrapbook bursting at the seams, something a suburban mom with too much free time would do.

"Some candy, flowers, cheesy-ass stuff I probably mentioned I liked in an interview somewhere," she laughed. She hadn't bothered to look through the whole thing. It freaked her out to be honest, too personal. "Oh, and a note saying to write back. Psycho." The entire debacle reminded her of the Jacob Ben Israel days.

"Come on, Santana. That poor bastard probably thinks you care," he reasoned. She laughed.

"Well, I don't. I can only tolerate one poor bastard," she said smiling and walked over to him. He had finally found his package. It was from the army. What more did they fucking want? Was almost ten years of his life not enough?

"It's from the army."

"Yeah? Open it." She was eager to get any kind of information about his experience with the army. He really didn't talk about it, and she hadn't ever seen pictures of anything that even suggested that he ever had a license to kill. Other than the story about Hal, she would have never known that he was in the army. She could have accredited many other things to his maturity, probably.

When he did what she told him to, he found a medal in the box. He rummaged through it for a letter, and when he found the typed note, he grabbed it with such intensity that it jerked Santana out of her own nonchalant haze.

As he read, she could see her lover's face become more enraged and frustrated. She wanted to prod him, to ask him what was the matter, but he looked deep in thought.

"What, what is it?"

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. This is fucking ridiculous." He kept grumbling the words over and over.

"What?" she shrieked.

"They gave me a fucking medal."

"So?" This was a good thing, right?

"They gave me a fucking medal for killing people, and surviving," he spit out. Great job there, America.

Oh.

It was the first time she had ever thought about how being the army meant not only did people you love _die_, but the people you love are _killing_ too. Someone else you wouldn't give a shit about otherwise was dying too. And she wasn't sure she liked the idea of Puck doing that. She didn't want to ask, but she knew she had to if she was going to continue their relationship with a clear conscious.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" she whispered.

"Not directly. Not me with a gun in someone else's face, dead on," he admitted, but he had had his fair share of violence. He had thrown grenades from below, been in ambushes from the side, even dropped bombs from high up. So there was no doubt in his mind, that yes, he had done things to end another person's life. And he neither liked the fact that he did those things, nor the talking about it.

"Okay." It was better than she had expected. "Tell me about it." She knew a hell of a lot about Puck and his own dark twisty secrets. There was his deadbeat dad, who as far as she was concerned, missed out big time. There was Quinn, who she had absolutely no pity for whatsoever so she wasn't going to even bother concern herself with it. There was _her_, for God's sake. She knew what she did must have messed him up the least, probably, but it was what caused the final thing that fucked up Noah Puckerman. War. And that? She knew absolutely nothing about.

"No." He took a firm stance on certain things, and this was one of them.

"Excuse me?" She wasn't used to being refused.

"No. Santana, you don't want to know what it was like. I promise you, you don't." She started to protest, but he continued, "It's not that I have fucking issues sharing or any shit like that, but you don't want this feeling on your conscious. You don't want to know, and I'm never going to tell you. Never. Okay?"

He tried to think of a relatively tame memory he could tell her, but everything was clouded in his brain. All jumbled together. And plus, even if he did find one, he wasn't going to share.

* * *

_Nope._

* * *

She relented and nodded. "Fine." There were things they didn't have to share with each other. He didn't mention how it was a little bothersome that his girlfriend posed half-naked for the world as a profession, and she wouldn't mention war again. He'd accepted her bitchy tendencies, which were never going away, and she was going to accept how closed-off he was. Again, they didn't have to know everything about each other, as long as they were even. She got up and reached forward, leaning against him to listen to his heartbeat once more. It was faster now.

"I'm so glad you're okay, and not dead. Or maimed. Or crippled like Artie Abrams. Because if you had let the government kill you before I did, I don't know what the world would have come to."

"Thanks, I guess," he chuckled. For Santana, it was sentimental.

"You're welcome. We can go and toss the stupid cheap-ass thing over the Brooklyn Bridge tomorrow, okay? Stop traffic. Cause a riot."

And then it occurred to him again, why he even bothered to leave the army. So he could find this girl. This girl who knew him better than he knew himself, and had no problem showing it.

**Some questions to think about (and answer if you want to make me happy):**

**1) Puck didnt tell his mother about what Santana did. What is the greater significance of this?  
**

**2) Puck and Santana are INCREDIBLY nonchalant about their relationships (past and present). Like when they leave each other, its almost like "whatever" and fights are also just "whatever," yet they always come crawling back. What does this indicate about their relationship? Have you ever seen old married couples kind of act like this? Is this because Puck and Santana have already accepted that they're stuck together forever and everything's blase? Or do they just not stick enough effort into making it work? Or maybe I'm just a horrible writer who is passive and boring. :)**

**3) Think about the ideas of burden, ignorance, and protection, and what they have to do with each other (and this story!). Both of them had secrets they kept (or still keep) to themselves. What are they? And is it worth it to suffer alone to protect the other person? What if the other person is going to find out eventually? Is it still worth the risk? And what about that old adage, "Ignorance is bliss"?**

**If you want to tell me something else about the story you like or dislike, please do!  
**

**Review! xoxo.  
**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hi guys! Here's chapter 19, I hope you like it, sorry for rambling with this AN.  
**

**To the reviewer who encouraged me to update and to not "abandon" this story. Rest assured, my darlings, I will NEVER (ever) abandon this story, but I will take my time to update. I'm not going to rush something just to update and publish something I am not happy with. That said, I hope I dont let you down, because you guys never let me down.  
**

**To J, the wonderful reviewer who took the time to review previous chapters (And yourdorkalways too!). You are an angel. It was after reading your review, I opened up a Word file for this chapter. You said you were going to try to answer all the "book club" questions. Well, I greatly enjoy your reponses, and I'm going to hold you to that goal!**

**And to my fabulous regulars: Caitlyn, Rosetta, Rosalie, APlatt...Cheers! Here we go again...  
**

She walked out of the meeting room after hours of press junket training, and headed towards the parking garage. No more work commitments until March, when her press tour started. The whole ride down the elevator, Santana thought of things to do on her vacation. Tan until she got three shades darker, never mind that it was winter. Troll eBay for hours on end until she found that vintage Chanel suitcase she'd been coveting since she was sixteen, but never had the time to bid on. Escape to a tropical paradise and drink out the entire bar. Spend an entire day lying in bed with her lover. Now _that_ was a capital idea. The thought of it made her want to get home fast even more.

The doors parted and she walked towards her car, digging around in her bucket bag for the keys that were sure to be buried in the bottom. She wasn't really looking where she was going, and she felt herself collide with another person, which was strange for a deserted parking garage.

"Whoops! Sorry about that!" she said, without bothering to look up, ready to walk past.

"Wait," the voice said, grabbing her by the wrist. Santana pivoted around and faced the person, who turned out to be a scruffy man, a little older than she was, and he was clutching a briefcase. His hair was sticking out in certain places that made her think he could be a cartoon character, and the way his ratty T-shirt and jeans clung to his bony frame was a dead giveaway that he didn't come into this building much.

"Yes?" she asked.

"You're Santana Lopez!" the man shouted abruptly, his voice echoing through the garage. The loudness of his voice startled Santana, and she and it was then that she realized this encounter was anything but ordinary. This strange man just referred to her as Santana _Lopez_, not Santana _Madison_. Who was he and why did he know who she really was? She was certain she didn't know him.

"Yes…who are you?" she asked apprehensively, finally giving up on searching for her keys.

"Only your greatest fan, Santana. Don't you know who I am? Why didn't you write back? Didn't you like my present?" he said, stepping towards her.

Oh god.

She had seen him before. This was the guy she had seen before, in the lobby of her apartment, offering to help her with her things when she had too much to carry. This was the guy, who had offered to buy her drinks at cafes. This was the guy who had sent her that creepy tribute box over the holidays. Ethan…no…Edwin…Edwin McCarthy.

It was like she was watching her life story unravel in a horror movie, and the same stranger kept popping up because there weren't enough extras.

"Don't get any closer," she asserted, and when she saw his face fall a little, she added a firm "please." She didn't know this man's limits.

"Oh, but Santana, I can't do that when I've finally got your attention! After months of looking for you, you are one tough cookie to track down!"

Well, yes, because she didn't like staying in one place at a time. Which is exactly what she was thinking at that moment.

She was going to drive off if she had to fucking hot wire her car. Which she could've done in her sleep, considering the stuff she and her cousins used to do back in Lima Heights Adjacent. But luckily she discovered her keys were in her coat pocket when she retracted her arm and stuck it closer to her body. She backed up as quickly as she could in stiletto boots, and ran for her car.

"Wait! Santana!"

"No! You get away from me before I call the police!" she screeched, jumping into the front seat, locking the doors. She backed out of her spot, swerved off, and didn't stop until she reached the confines of her apartment.

"Jesus Christ, Santana. What's wrong with you?" he said as she slammed the door, locked it and kicked off those precious Christian Louboutins of hers, throwing them against the wall. She ignored him, and in a panic, ripped off the Tiffany charm bracelet she'd had since high school and threw that too into the potted plant by the umbrella rack. She continued, letting her hair out of the messy top-knot she had put in that morning. The expression on her revealed a shakiness in her core (And no, not that kind).

"Call the police, right now," she asserted, and he bounced up from the couch.

"What? What's going on?" he repeated, alarmed. He grabbed her and shook her slender frame until she would tell.

"What's going on is that I think someone has been following me for the last couple of months, or at least like tracking."

"Like a stalker?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so. Maybe like an obsessor…"

"That's a stalker, Santana. Is he still following you?"

"How do you know it's a he?" she questioned. He raised his eyebrows. Fine. Maybe that was a given.

"What does he want?"

"I don't know! He was at the parking garage. And he's the guy who sent that package. And we've seen him before, I swear." She was rambling now and her voice cracked against her will. Santana had dealt with unwanted attention her whole life, but this was different.

* * *

_"Hey sexy!" a voice hollered, and when she looked up, she saw that the trunk that had honked had a sweaty man in his mid forties that had a myriad of tattoos and piercings. Gross. It was even enough to freak out Puck, who at fifteen years old, was still unsettled by such things, no matter how badass he claimed he was.  
_

_"Fuck off!" she yelled, and flipped the man off. The truck whizzed away after the man yelled "Bitch!" Whatever, middle aged men had no business with teenage girls anyways, it was just plain creepy.  
_

_"What'd you do that for, Santana? He could have run you over and tased you or something." One day, Santana's spirit and sass would get her in trouble, and Santana was too strong willed to realize it.  
_

_"Did you hear what he said? I'm with you, jackass."  
_

* * *

"Okay, okay, baby. Calm down." He grabbed her, her face snuggling into the crook of his arm, inhaling the scent of the generic brand of laundry detergent he'd been using because he had claimed hers was too feminine. He would never know this, but every once in a while, she would sneak one of her own T-shirts in there, and it would emerge smelling like him. He used his other arm to dial 9-1-1, and when he mentioned who was calling, the police were there in no time, listening to her ramble some more.

"Now, Miss Madison, there is no reason to be scared. We have his name and address from that package you showed us, and we'll have him in no time," the officer said, leaving a steamy ring on her coffee table, by not bothering to use a coaster. That was the last time she was ever going to offer a drink to a law enforcement officer.

"I'm not scared!" she snapped.

"Shh, babe," Puck cooed, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.

"I'm not! I'm freaked out, and I'm nervous, and I'm a little violated, but I am _not_ scared! So stop treating me like I'm made of fucking porcelain!" Puck knew that was somewhat true, because he had seen Santana scared before, and this was not it. She was just frazzled. Santana had to have dealt with unwanted attention her whole life, and this wasn't that different. Her antsiness was only heightened because of the stress she had been under lately. This was no way to start off a vacation.

"Obviously she's not scared, so please stop harassing my girlfriend," he said to the officer, man to man. To be honest, he wasn't that freaked out about it either. He had seen much worse, and Santana Lopez was the kind of girl who could take care of herself.

"Look, we're just trying to help. My team has just notified me that they have the man in custody, and it seems that he is quite the fan of yours, Miss Madison. We've found collages and scrapbooks dedicated to you, but only dating back August. At this point, it's hard to say whether or not we can book him for stalking, but you can certainly press charges."

August.

That was when they re-met. Shit. A wave a momentary guilt passed through him, wondering if he was at fault for not looking after her well enough, but it left as she squeezed his bicep from her spot next to him on the sofa.

"Well, that's not really necessary, I think. Unless you think he's dangerous," Santana said to his dismay.

"It's textbook. Single. Lives alone. Anti-social. Not too many friends. But there's no history of violence."

"That's fine, I hate lawyers anyways. I think it's enough of a warning to be arrested, right?"

"Santana, baby, are you sure about this? What if he keeps following you around? He might take the whole thing as a taunt, like it's a challenge or something," Puck protested.

She waved him off.

"Just consider it; this guy could be a fucking psycho, and you just don't know it. This could only be the beginning. Better safe than sorry!"

"I don't want to send him to jail. Somebody out there loves that man, and he hasn't done me any real harm. I don't want to send him to jail," she said again. What was she supposed to do, send a man to jail for something as innocuous as an infatuation? In fact, if infatuation didn't exist, neither would her and Puck's own relationship.

* * *

"_Jesus fucking Christ. I feel like I'm going to catch a disease just sitting in this tacky ass chair," she bites, trying to take up as little space possible on the hard plastic._

"_Who asked you to come, Princess?" he bit back. The clear, but hard barrier between them takes some of the edge off his voice though._

"_Your mother," she said, smirking as she crossed her arms over her chest. She'd worn her lowest cut bustier just to tease the fuck out of him. To show him what his selfishness had cost him, what he was missing._

"_Really now?" Things were getting interesting._

"_Yup, only jail can bring me and your mother together, darling," she said sarcastically. Allison had asked her to visit after hearing how desperate and sad her son sounded in his phone calls._

"_It's juvie. Hardly jail."_

_She swiveled her head around a couple of times. _

"_Hmm…scary butch female attendant? Concrete floor probably stained with the blood of various ghetto knifings? 'Help' carved into this plastic screen? Hmm…looks like jail to me." _

"_Why are you being such a bitch?"_

"_Because you left! You went off on some crazy ass adventure randomly and left me to sing a fucking duet this week with Mercedes. At least I'll win and get that gift card to Breadstix. You could have at least invited me along, I would have been game," she sniped, referring to his midnight ATM run…_

"_At least," he shrugged nonchalantly, "Can't deny you need me, babe."_

_"Whatever, I have Brittany."_

"_Brittany can't do the things I can."_

"_Plenty of others can."_

"_So why haven't you found someone yet?" _

_She uncrossed her arms uncomfortably, and looked around if there was anyone else in the visiting room to focus her attention on, but there wasn't._

"_Come on, Lo. Pop another button for me."_

"_Don't be ridiculous, Puckerman. I'm not flashing you in juvie."_

_So now it was juvie._

"_But don't look too disappointed," she responded to his crestfallen expression, "I considered it for a second."_

* * *

"Well, you want a restraining order, right?" asked the officer, running his hand through his salt and pepper hair.

"Of course," they both said at the same time.

"Okay, well I would advise you to lay low for a bit, Miss Madison. You know how the press can be. Take a break. Stay out of the limelight."

"Oh, I plan to. But I only have a month off, that's hardly long enough for a true vacation."

"Don't talk to me about paid vacation. At least you get breaks," the officer joked.

"That's true," she agreed.

"Although I do have a major press tour in a month. I'm going to be swamped. What should I say if they ask me about it?"

"That's a question for your publicist, but I assure you Miss Madison, the people of America would much rather know other things about you than who's stalking you."

She blushed, and he nudged her, the hand that was coasting along the small of her back, slowly creeping up the back of her shirt.

"All right, is everything in order then?" she said quickly, rising abruptly from her seat before either of them could do something uncomfortable, like pop a bra strap (him) or moan and awkwardly try to disguise it as a cough (her).

"Uh, yes, I suppose. I'm going to set up a couple of squad cars across the street. Keep an eye on you. Don't let those damn lobbyists know, or else my boss will never hear the end of it. Tax dollars, shmax dollars."

She tried a noncommittal laugh. He snorted.

"Okay, take care now Miss Madison. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call."

"Absolutely. Thanks for your help, Officer. I'm so glad we have law enforcement officers like you, now that is just a prime example of tax dollars gone to good use," she said sweetly, blinking a few times for good measure.

This was turning into another one of her and Puck's stupid cat and mouse games. That was how fucked up their relationship was. In the midst of a crisis, all they could think about was sex, teasing, and fucking with the police.

He stifled the laugh threatening to escape his lips, as she lead the officer to the door and bid him goodbye. When she returned to her spot on the couch, Puck was crouched over laughing.

"God, Santana. I don't know how you fucking do it. 'Prime example' was gold," he laughed.

What could she say? She was a damn good actress.

"But seriously, are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm going to be fine," she said, a little bit annoyed at all the attention she was getting. Nothing happened! He noticed she didn't say that she was okay, just that she was going to be.

"What do you want?" Puck asked. It had been long since he realized nobody could ever change Santana Lopez's mind. All anyone could do was offer to help, and maybe she would let you in.

"Just tell me something happy," she sighed, thinking of the lazy summer days when she and Brittany used to lay on her comforter and Brittany would just say whatever cute things came to mind. Bunnies. Rainbows. Marshmallows.

Not really what he was going for there. "Okay, well…" he started. He had been thinking about this for a while now, after watching Santana get to live out her dream life (except for the job part), he figured he deserved it as much as she did. "I'm going back to school. Might as well cash in on that military benefit."

"Really?" she snorted. Puck and school?

"Hey! I thought you were supposed to be supportive and shit, you're my girlfriend."

"Fuck that. Doing what? Where?"

"I don't know, whoever will take me. I think social issues. I'm good with that shit."

"Yeah, yeah you are."

Well, he might have been just a Jewish boy from the middle of nowhere, but even Santana had to admit that every once in a while, the guy did have some great ideas. Because honestly, sometimes the most complicated of problems had the simplest of solutions. And if that was all it took to fix society, then surely he was the best dumbass for the job.

"I'm glad. I'm proud of you, I guess," she said, giving him a kiss.

Now she could finally be the one to say it back.

**Okay, so what'd you think? I love hearing your feedback. Dont worry, I wont drag out this stalker thing and make it cliche. It's just a catalyst for what happens next. :)**

**Questions to think about and answer if you wanna make me happy:**

**1) So the theme this chapter was infatuation. How does this apply to Puck and Santana, and is it enough to withhold a relationship? From where I'm sitting, it kind of seems like it is...for now. Does it have to do with how they always come crawling back to each other?  
**

**2) What are your thoughts on how a lifetime of unwanted attention has shaped Santana's personality? I think it has to do with this feeling of (perhaps false) invincibility she thinks she has. Think about one of my favorite movie quotes, "Just because you're beautiful doesn't mean you can treat people like they dont matter."**

**3) Super bonus! This is left over from last chapter. Consider Nana Connie's statement. "Let the cake cool before you frost it." What the hell does that mean! And what does it have to do with anything!  
**


	20. Chapter 20

**Here's another chapter. Lovely reviews all around last chapter. A special thank you to JooBean, who gave me the best review ever! I think I said that it was in that review that I truly saw the fruits of my labor. So thank you. This chapter is really dialogue heavy, and not my favorite because I dont think its that well written, but at this point, theres not much I can do. I'll save my talents for the next chapter. :)**

Puck awoke to a rhythmic grunting, and he wondered if he was still dreaming. But when he rolled on his side to look at the left side of the bed, he found a mess of Egyptian cotton sheets (that shit is amazing, even for PTSD'd war vets) instead of Santana. It was only after a moment that he realized the grunting was coming from behind…and possibly…under the bed.

"Santana?" he said into thin air, feeling foolish.

"What?" was the reply.

"Where are you?" he called again into the darkness.

"On the ground…" she huffed before returning to her routine. He scrambled to her side of the bed, and looked over the edge to find his lover on the floor, doing sit ups in her satin nightgown at four in the morning.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, dumbass?"

"Well, it looks like you're on your 67th sit-up in the middle of the night."

"Actually, it's 89th. Or maybe 88th. Don't really remember. Stopped keeping track."

"Right," he answered, as if exercising in the darkness was just a normal thing to do, "Come back to bed, baby. You're exhausted."

"I'm fine right here," she said, her voice breaking in the slightest this time around. She must have been on her 100th push up by now.

He didn't know what to say, because he _knew_ she was exhausted. He just _knew_. She hadn't had a break in years. This was her first time in her adult life that she had nothing to do; was it possible that she had forgotten how to simply subsist? Now that she no longer had to go on, had life stopped?

"Santana," he started again calmly, acting nonchalantly.

"What?" she snapped, but still didn't stop. He got onto his hands and knees, and turned on the nightlight, revealing Santana to be covered in sweat.

"Jesus, how long have you been up doing this?"

"I don't know."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know."

"That's it, you've fucking lost it, Lopez. Get up."

"No," she groaned.

He jumped down from the bed, and started to pick her up. She struggled, and would never give up without a fight. He successfully had her limber body in his arms, but she remained kicking.

"Let go of me, Noah Puckerman! I am fine!" She was fine. Nothing was wrong with her, for God's sake. She was healthy, successful, beautiful. There was no reason not to be fine at all.

"No, you're not Santana."

"No! No! No!" And then she didn't know why, but she started crying. Sobbing, even.

"Babe, what's wrong?" he said gingerly, placing her on the bed, where she crawled into a little ball on his side of the bed, letting the warmth that had come from his sleeping silhouette seep into her own self. He followed her onto the bed, and flicked off the light again, sending them back into the darkness.

"I…." she was at a standstill, because she didn't know. She just couldn't stop crying, a well had just sprouted from inside her and wouldn't stop. "I…I don't even know." She wasn't mad, or happy, or sad. She felt…incomplete.

"It's fine. You're fine, just like you said, Santana," he said, trying to be comforting. It wasn't exactly true, but he knew she would appreciate that kind of chick stuff.

"What's wrong with me? I can't stop crying. It's like, I can't even be a normal human being anymore. I don't even know how to function," she wept.

"That's not true," he said, stroking her arm.

"Yeah, it is. Like yesterday at the gym, when you just tapped me on the shoulder and I spazzed out. Or when I was at Whole Foods the day before, and I couldn't look at the snack aisle without wanting the vomit."

Okay, that was all true.

All of those things were completely understandable. She had a right to be on edge, because she had just gotten harassed by a psychopath for the last few months. She had a right to fall back into her supermodel lifestyle as a defense mechanism. She was only doing what she knew best. But she couldn't do it forever.

"What am I going to do?" she cried.

"I know."

He _knew_. In fact, he had known for a long while now, that this was what she needed. This was needed a long time coming.

"You do?"

"We're going to Lima."

At that, she jumped up out of the fetal position, and whipped her head around to face him. "We're _what_?"

"You heard me, we're going home." He was stern with his assertion, and although he couldn't see her face, he knew a look of fear flashed across her eyes.

"No, no. We have no home. Fuck, this is our home. There's you and me, and this bed with 1000-thread count sheets, and takeout menus from every restaurant in the city, and a hot tub in the basement. We have everything we need. We don't need to go anywhere. We have everything we need," she rambled. He couldn't possibly think this.

"Santana!" he interrupted, grabbing her shoulders, "We do need something. You can't just stay in your apartment all day and expect things to be okay. You need a fucking break, and nobody expects you to just go on like this forever." She appreciated that although he knew that this was all her problem, they were both going to fix it.

"I…" She couldn't shake the feeling that the looming dread that had been building for a decade now had finally caught up with her, anchoring her into a hole that she had dug herself.

"Sleep on it, baby. It'll sound like a really good idea in the morning," he said with his classic smug confidence. As if he knew exactly what she needed, but now wasn't that a lie. He was fairly certain going back to Lima, the one place that she had betrayed for hurting her, would never seem like a good idea for her. But if he didn't force her to go back, she never would.

She didn't respond, which naturally meant she was considering it. But she silently accepted the half tablet of Valium he'd taken out of the bedside drawer and swallowed it whole. Maybe it would sound better in the morning…

But of course, she didn't get a chance in the morning to ponder the idea deeply, because she awoke with his hands between her legs, making her lose whatever thought she would have conjured up in that moment.

"Already? It's only ten," she said mid-pant.

"You woke up at four in the morning to do sit-ups so you don't get to judge. At least what I'm suggesting is enjoyable," he continued, pulling her nightgown over her head, as she giggled.

"Okay, fine. But only once," she relented, not really meaning it of course.

But of course, once turned into twice, which turned into thrice, which turned into…well, there really wasn't a cool word for that. They'd fucked their way ahead of their high school vocabularies.

When they had finished, both of them breathless on those precious Egyptian cotton sheets she adored so much, she had nearly forgotten what he had brought up a couple hours before.

"So…Lima?"

"God, Puck. Way to ruin the moment."

"What? You only have two weeks of vacation left. If we're going to go, let's go. What are you waiting for, Lo?" He would never make her do anything she didn't want to, and the thought of him going back alone didn't even cross his mind.

"I don't know, I mean, I do want to see my mom, but I doubt she wants to see me, and I sure as hell don't want to see anyone else." She was mindlessly rambling again. If she talked enough circles around the subject, maybe he would drop it.

"So call her."

"My mother?" Okay, she didn't expect him to really think she was going to.

"Yeah." Did she think he was that stupid? Of course Santana was bluffing.

"Maybe I will," she snipped.

"Yeah," he countered.

"Okay then," she huffed, getting up and storming out of the room.

"Okaaaay," he shouted from his spot on the bed, "I'll be waiting."

Shit! Now she would have to call her mother for sure. He of course, smiled, because his stupid reverse psychology tactics had gotten him exactly what he wanted again, by accident.

"Wait. You know what? I'm not going to take your shit, Noah Puckerman. I'm going to call my mother if I want to, and I sure as hell don't," she yelled as she stormed back into the bedroom.

He knew she had been bluffing.

"Santana, that's a copout and you know it. Call. Your. Mother."

"No. Fucking. Way."

"Don't pussy out." He gave her his signature smirk.

"I'm not!"

"Sit down," he demanded, tapping the spot next to him on the bed. She obliged, and stared straight ahead.

"Have you been loved enough?" he asked in all sincerity, turning her body with his hands to face her.

"What? You wanna go again?" she asked in surprise. The sex was amazing as usual, but even she needed a break.

"No," he answered emotionlessly, casually, "I didn't mean today. I meant your whole life. Have you been loved enough?"

Then she understood what he meant.

She thought about it for a moment. She certainly hadn't started her life out loved. She thought about all the loves she had lost: Brittany, Lima, God. She didn't know if she could classify her family in that category just yet. And then she thought about all the loves she had gained: Katie, New York, him. And in that moment, Santana Lopez realized she was _loved_.

She didn't have everything, but she sure as hell wasn't going to get any closer.

"Yes."

"Then what do you have to lose?" was his only response. Sometimes she hated how someone like him could boil down the most complicated questions to the simplest answers.

She didn't reply; she only got up and quietly walked out the bedroom door.

She went out to the living room, feeling the lofty apartment air weaving in and out of the spaces her body created, and started the coffeemaker as she grabbed her phone. As she tried to dial the number of her childhood home, the thought that maybe the number wouldn't be the same anymore suddenly occurred to her. Was she really doing this? Voluntarily calling her mother, the mother who made it perfectly clear that she would have no problem never seeing her only child ever again?

She punched in the number, and now she waited, hoping her father wouldn't be the one to pick up. Most likely it wouldn't be him, since he didn't really like to concern himself with the outside world, which was why he was so closed minded about everything. But Santana didn't really blame him. It came with living in Lima. She was like him too, until she moved to New York. She watched the coffee maker drip the steaming liquid into two matching mugs, anxiously waiting for someone to answer the phone on the other line. There was a little bit of a thrill, in calling her mother while she was buck naked, but also an intense fear.

Oh, who was she kidding? Even her backwards parents must have Caller ID by now. Surely they were letting her call sit unanswered, the bellows of the rings echoing through their empty house.

She imagined how the conversation would occur. She would apprehensively tell her mother/father she was coming back to town. Her mother would say, "Oh, Santana" in that awfully timid and tortured voice of hers, never fully revealing her emotion. Her mother would stand there at the telephone in shock, maybe even dropping her Bible to the floor, and her father would most certainly ask what was wrong from his pity chair. Then when her mother would tell him (because she definitely would), her father would swear a couple times, in a couple languages. And by the time both of them recovered from the shock and picked up the phone again, their daughter most likely would have already hung up.

She was going to hang up right now.

"Hello?"

What?

"Hello?" the softspoken voice on the other end repeated, and Santana suddenly felt her throat closing up. She wanted to scream, yell at her mother. _Mom! It's me! Your daughter, remember? _But she was trapped in her own bubble, created from her own mind, and no matter how hard she pounded the glass, she couldn't break free.

"Alright, I'm hanging up now, whoever you are. Good day."

Click.

Another opportunity had wasted by.

A deep voice shook her out of her reverie.

"Santana? Are you okay?" He was yelling from the bedroom, probably antsy to hear about her "conversation" with her mother.

"Coming!" she yelled back. She picked up the coffee, not even caring that they were scalding and brought them back to the bedroom. She found Puck sitting up on the bed in his boxers, her laptop sitting on a cushion atop his lap. She smiled, because she had been bugging him for weeks now to quit laying the laptop on his lap directly. Something about scientific studies proving it was bad for your libido. The focus of the article had been about virility, but she didn't really care about that. He was wearing his glasses, and when he saw her come in, he took them off and set aside the laptop.

"What'd she say?" he asked.

"Oh, no one was home," she tossed out nonchalantly, a gulp escaping at the end.

"Well, that's too bad." He looked a little crestfallen, and she couldn't stand that poor puppy look on his stupid mug.

"No, baby, it's fine," she reasoned, setting the coffee down, and crawling back into bed, siding up next to him. And all of a sudden, she started treating the situation as if she was the one feeling guilty because they couldn't go back to Lima. As if she was the one who wanted to go in the first place.

"What?"

"Shh, baby, we'll go," she purred, stroking his bicep. He sat in confusion and crinkled his eyebrows. Was this some ambiguous Latina way of saying that she indeed wanted to go?

"Huh?"

"I mean, if it means that much to you, of course we will," she continued.

"What? I mean, yeah. Yeah, Santana. I really want to go." He didn't mention that he was pretty sure she wanted to go too.

"Then it's settled, we'll leave in the morning," she said assertively, jumping out of bed to look for her silk robe.

"Good, I already bought the tickets with your Amex. You had the airmiles anyways. First class all the way, baby."

"You would," she teased. She wasn't surprised, although she was a little amused.

"Well, don't you sound excited all of a sudden?"

* * *

"_Jesus Christ, Lo. Would it kill you to calm down?" he grunted, attempting to keep up with her as she scurried through the hall from 6__th__ period to the pep rally._

_She was already going to be in trouble with Coach Sylvester for not getting to the gym ten minutes earlier. Who knew janitor's closets could be so fun?_

"_No!" She continued down the hall, her Tiffany charm bracelet jingling against her slender wrist._

"_Why does this even matter so much? It's just another stupid pep rally."_

"_Don't you understand? That reporter is coming." The arrival of Tracy Pendergrass in Lima, Ohio was front page news. Lima didn't get too many visitors, no less Pulitzer Prize winners._

"_So? It's just a stupid cheerleading magazine. Unless you want to be a professional cheerleader, which I don't think is even a real thing, he's just as lame as the rest of the losers sitting on the bleachers."_

"_Shut up. This is just the beginning, Puckerman. I already have stacks of college recruit pamphlets at home. If he notices me, I'm going to get my free ride to USC," she said affirmatively. _

"_Don't settle for mediocre, Lopez."_

_But didn't she know she was better than cheerleading? He was sure she was good at other things. All she had to do was wait, and something else was sure to come along._

* * *

"Baby, they're the ones who should be scared. A celebrity's coming to town."

**Q's to think about and answer if you wanna make me happy!**

**1) What's up with Santana? Has she really forgotten how to be a human being? If so, when did she stop living? If not, how will she get better!  
**

**2) Does Santana have a right to "pursuit of happiness"? She's mentioned she doesnt like her job. But she's guilty for wanting more, when she's already got so much. Should she just "settle" and deal with it? And has she "settled" before (like in Lima)?**

**Also, how's my writing? What do I need to improve on? What am I doing right?**

**I'm taking APLA this year, so although I will have less time to write, I will be more inspired. I think its a fair trade, no?**

**Drop me a message!  
**


	21. Chapter 21

**Howdy folks! Now the chapter you've all been waiting for! Enjoy...**

"Come on lazyass, get out of bed. You've been sleeping for two days," Puck announced as he flipped the comforter off of her lithe body, causing her to shiver and curl up into a little ball in the middle of the bed. They'd been in Lima a grand total of three days, and she had spent all of it holed up in the hotel room. Well, if you could even call it that. The Hotel Lima was more like New York's Days Inn. Santana had blamed it on the jet lag, but by now, surely she was fine.

"No, I haven't. The operative word is sleeping. I don't see how anyone can sleep on these awful sheets. They must not even be 200 count," she quipped, burying her face in the pillow.

"Well, you slept on them for the first eighteen years of your life, so get your ass up, princess. We're going out," he yelled, grabbing her by the ankles.

"Cut the shit. I am not going anywhere," she screeched, pulling free and sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard with a defiant look on her face.

He stared her down, "What is your problem, Santana? You didn't come home to sit in a hotel room all day. Do you think this is anybody's idea of vacation?" He had spent all of the first day with her, the second and third with his sister and his ma, who interrogated him nonstop about why he wasn't staying at home. Sarah had smirked the whole time. Like brother, like sister.

"This was your stupid idea!"

"Yeah, and I'm thinking that we shouldn't have come!"

"Well, isn't that just dandy? That's what I've been saying all along, but no, you just had to come home to precious Lima."

"Don't act like I forced you into it," he said petulantly, despite it being the truth.

"I'm not. If you want to leave, leave. No one is asking you to stay. You didn't have to stay in this awful hotel with me. You could be at home right now eating bacon pancakes with Sarah, or watching the game on the couch with Finn fucking Hudson even for all I care."

But didn't he see that she was indeed asking him to stay?

And didn't she see that he did need to stay? It was the same reason he chose to stay in the hotel with her, instead of in his old room in his mother's house. It was the same reason he hadn't told his mother he had come home with a guest this time. It was the same reason he had brought her the Thunderclap from their senior year after stealing it from the public library.

Neither of them averted their gazes, and he was the first to break the heated silence.

"Fine. I'll be back in a couple hours."

"I'll be here," she responded quietly, because where was there to go? Now here was the thing about people who lived alone for long periods of time. They get used to the loneliness.

"Maybe I'll bring someone around to visit you if you refuse to see them," he casually said, just throwing the words over his shoulder as he reached for his coat. It took her a few moments in her sleepy haze to realize the connotation of his comment. And once she did, she sprung up in bed, her unwashed hair whipping behind her in messy strands.

"What?"

He only smirked, because he was sure she knew what he meant. Jackass.

"Okay, wait. I'll be ready in twenty minutes. I can't go out looking like this, even if it is Lima," she sighed, getting out of bed and heading for the dingy shower. He smacked her bottom as she walked by him, of course.

He smirked again, and sat in her place on the bed. Only they could go from raging fights to cunning deception to this in a matter of minutes. Twenty-four minutes later (Yes, he timed it), she emerged, wearing a simple pair of jeans, a tight-fitting tee shirt, and a scarf. The outfit looked casual, like she didn't care enough to make an effort, but she was still polished. Of course, this meant she had put tons of thought into her outfit to ensure she didn't look as if she tried to hard.

"Okay, where are we going?" she sighed in defeat.

"Let's hit the mall."

"What are we? Sixteen?"

He chose not to answer, and the two of them walked the half mile to the business district in town, which was comprised of a dry cleaner's, several grocery stores, and a shopping mall. When they passed Breadstix, he nudged her back a little, as if to tease her.

She groaned. "I wish. But you know I can't eat that stuff." But it was awful tempting.

"Are you sure? We don't have Breadstix in New York…come on, Lopez. When are you ever going to get another chance to have those delicious breadsticks? They deliver, so no one would ever have to know," he taunted.

She groaned again, like she was in great agony, and he was sure she was. "Stop. Okay, we can go on our last day. Only once. And we better get our special booth."

He shrugged, as if the decision was completely up to her. They reached the mall, and she pushed the sunglasses she had grabbed from her purse higher up on her nose. She wasn't afraid of being recognized as a celebrity. She was afraid of being recognized, period.

She found that the Lima Mall had changed little since her high school days. There was still a Forever 21, but honestly, what place didn't have one of those? She saw the frozen yogurt place that had opened up their junior year, causing a frenzy in a town that had been spoiled by full-fat ice cream their whole lives. Still, she felt a sense of nostalgia as she walked through the somewhat deserted mall on this Wednesday afternoon. But she was going to make an effort to be pleasant about the whole thing, truly. There was no need to start up even more drama in this place. She even pretended to be the slightest bit interested when he pulled her into the sporting goods to look at the whole spectrum of colored fishing lines. She told him the green one looked better than the red, and he offered to buy her a matching pink one, which she promptly declined. She let the sales lady at Ann Taylor speak to her like she was her mother or something, and even tried on a cardigan that made her feel like Quinn Fabray, circa 2010. And in a true testament of her attempt at being nice, she didn't even smack him when he whispered in her ear that what this mall really needed was a Victoria's Secret.

But it was the last store in the mall that actually stopped her in her tracks. In the place of the shoe repair shop that had once occupied the spot was Kurtsies, a chic and stylish boutique for all fashionistas, as the sign proclaimed.

He nudged her again. "Wanna go in?"

She was hesitant, but she really really wanted to see what Kurt Hummel had been up to. Last she heard (which was a long time ago), he was at RISD studying fashion illustration. Was he really back in Lima? Surely there was not anyone else in this town that would start a boutique, and name it Kurtsies. And of all people to understand her career, it would be Kurt, right?

Oh, what the hell?

She grabbed him by the hand, and allowed herself to be dragged into the Midwestern fashion heaven.

The man at the counter dropped the sunglasses he was holding, and his mouth dropped open. Oh yes, it was him. She noticed he was as stylish as always, in khaki slacks and a long Marc Jacobs sweater from last season. She knew the look would never fly in New York, but in Lima, Kurt was basically a fashion extraordinaire. She stood uncomfortably in front of him, not sure what to do. She looked to Puck for advice, but he shrugged again.

"Hi?" she waved awkwardly.

"Oh my gosh, it is you! Oh my gosh, Santana! I can't believe you're back! Oh my gosh!" he squealed and he ran to embrace her. The force of his hug sent her back a few steps, and she felt Puck's hands on the small of her back steadying her.

To say she was overwhelmed was an understatement.

When they broke apart, Kurt looked breathless, as if hugging a social pariah was simply exhausting.

"Wow, I can't believe this. I never thought I would see you back here again, Santana."

She nervously chuckled. "Aren't you going to be ostracized for talking to me?"

"Screw them. There's a celebrity standing in my store! How've you been? You know I'm a tabloid junkie. Is it true you and Victoria's Secret might be cutting ties? I know all the other stuff about you and Puck is true. Some things never change, baby."

"Yeah, well…I'm not sure. Anyways, how about you? I thought you were in Rhode Island!" she said enthusiastically, changing the subject. She and Kurt were never close, and she didn't see why she had to tell him the details of her career, even if she was trying to be amicable.

"Wow, Santana. You've got to keep up with the times, hon. That was so five years ago. I had a branch of Kurtsies there, but you know, then recession hit again, and I had to come back home. Can't say it's what I wanted, but what can you do, right?"

She nodded, like she understood, when the reality of it was, she had no idea what it felt like to be financially insecure in this decade. The last time she was poor…well that was when she was first starting out in the business, eating peanut butter for lunch. Puck was still behind them, pretending to look at the scarves on the rack. Real subtle.

"Well, how's business?"

"It's Lima. What do you think?"

"But you must have a website?"

"Yeah, but I don't have enough capital right now to get the word out," he said sympathetically, and she nodded because she understood the fashion market better than anyone else at this point.

"Here, let me help you out then. ?" she said proactively, whipping out her Blackberry.

Kurt nodded, wondering what Santana was doing. He was shocked to see her back in Lima, naturally because of what happened, but he wasn't that shocked. Lima had that tacky magnetic quality that always pulled people back. He'd fallen for it. Why wouldn't Santana?

"What are you just doing?"

"Just tweeted your website," she mumbled.

"Really?" he asked. Santana was being awfully nice. Maybe it was because she was already walking on eggshells in this town. Kurt didn't quite remember her like this.

"Yeah, it's nothing," she waved off. She started to change the subject yet again, but was interrupted this time by someone else.

"Santana? Is that you?"

Santana turned around, and faced a petite woman wearing a dress with camels all over it. She felt a flashback back to science class, and couldn't remember if the camels on the dress were considered dromedary…or that other one.

"Hi, Rachel. How've you been?"

It came across more insincere than she intended. It was a habit.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel demanded, ignoring her.

"Am I not allowed to visit the town I grew up in?"

"Not after what you did. How dare you even show your face here?" Rachel continued, "Kurt, how can you even let her in?"

"Now wait a minute, Rachel. Santana's the reason my website server just crashed from so many hits. She's welcome here anytime," Kurt interjected, and Santana felt a satisfactory smirk coming on. By this time, Puck had noticed that the mood in the room was no longer what it was a couple minutes ago. He turned around and put his hand on Santana's back again, noticing that she was shaking. He felt Santana fall into ease slightly, but continue to feel the reverberations of Rachel's appearance.

"And you, Noah! How can you stand to stay with her? What has she got? There are plenty of other girls who have it too, just call up her plastic surgeon."

Santana felt herself getting a little defensive, but she would not answer Rachel for him.

"Lay off, Rachel. I'm with her." And there was no other way to put it. He noticed that Rachel's words echoed Quinn's sentiments from a few months before, and he realized how uniform people here in Lima were.

"Fine. But, Santana, you are still the laughing stock of this town, and will always be!"

"Rachel, when are you going to give it up? You know why I'm the laughing stock of this town? It's because you are all secretly jealous that I'm doing something, while the rest of you are sitting here disenchanted, complaining about your sob stories. Yeah, you tried. Kurt tried. And it didn't work. And what I did worked. But don't hate me for that. Or do. I'm done trying to get this place to forgive me for something I did rightly so. It's not worth it." She finally found her voice, and damn, did it feel good.

"It didn't work because of you. You ruined my dream. We lost Nationals because of you!"

"No, you lost Nationals because of you! I was long gone before you started rehearsing. I didn't bail on you last second, and from what I remember, it seemed like you never needed me or even wanted me at all. The New Directions lost because they weren't good enough, and that's that."

Rachel felt herself getting heated, and reached out to grab Santana's wrist. Santana felt Rachel's hold vibrate through her body and she was hit with a flash of panic.

"Don't…don't touch me there," Santana yelped at Rachel's touch. Puck shot a desperate look at Kurt, and tore Santana away, turning her body around so that it no longer faced Rachel. He pulled Santana into his arms, shielding her from the other bitter girl.

"I think it's time you leave, Rachel. It's for the best. For everyone," Puck said steadily, holding his gaze with Rachel's until Rachel huffed one last time and left on her penny loafered heel.

"Thanks," Santana said once she caught her breath, "Sorry," she apologized, "After what happened back home, I just don't like people invading my space."

Kurt nodded. "Don't worry about it. I've been wanting to say all those things to her for so long now. Ever since Finn married Quinn—I mean, Lucy—she hasn't been the same."

Santana and Puck laughed, because that was so Rachel, to be hung up over one lughead boy.

"Right. What have they been up to? Finn and Quinn?" Santana asked, because it was the polite thing to do, even though she was starting to get sick of asking about people's blah lives.

"They're fine. Quinn just had another boy. Named it after Schuester."

Santana gagged. Puck chuckled.

"Yeah, they're actually out of town right now. They took a trip to Dayton to see some fertility specialist, because Quinn desperately wants a girl for baby number five."

Santana gagged again. Puck tensed.

"I know, right? I told her to just adopt some pregnant teenager's. Ha. Anyways, she'll have a hoot when she finds out you were here the week she was gone."

"Well, hopefully I'll be gone before she comes back. I don't really want to see her."

"Understandable."

"Santana, I think it's time we head back to the hotel. We've had enough for one day, don't you think?," Puck said unexpectedly.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." She faced Kurt again, ready to say her goodbye, knowing quite well this would actually be the last time she would see him, unless he came to see her. "Well, it was so nice seeing you. Thanks for not hating me."

"Course not."

"And if you're ever in New York, give us a call. We'd love to have you over."

"Absolutely." The trio exchanged hugs and contact information, and parted ways.

On their way out of the mall, both of them exhausted from the Sturm und Drang they had encountered, he whispered to her, "Next year, we're going to Cabo."

She smiled, but only because he was already thinking there would be a next year.

**So how was it? No questions this time, just tell me what you think. What did you like? What didn't you like? Please drop me a review, I love hearing from you all. xoxoemily.  
**


	22. Chapter 22

**Here's Chapter 22! We're almost done... :( Enjoy!**

**Side Note: Are my old regular reviewers out there still reading? Rosetta? Caitlyn? Rosalie? I just want to know if I've lost your attention. I know sometimes it takes a while to catch up.**

Santana emerged from the bathroom, her hair slicked with Moroccan oil and her body nestled in her favorite (and his too) nightgown. He was sitting upright on the hotel bed, on the right side. He always took the right; she always took the left. It was simply a routine they had fallen into. Her left-handedness complimented his right, so they could each have their elbow space. They had always operated this way, ever since they were kids, at restaurants, movie theaters, in bed.

But he was staring mindlessly at the football game playing on the television that was conveniently placed at eye level. He wondered when people had become so lazy that they no longer even needed to get out of bed to turn on the evening news or a bad reality show. She knew he was no doubt processing the events of the day, running into Kurt then Rachel like that.

"Are you going to sit there moping all night or are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?" She picked up the bottle of lotion sitting on the nightstand, and squirted some into her palms, the air in the bottle creating a suctioning sound.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" he replied automatically, but the satire in his comment was lost in the monotony of his tone. Yet she was the messed up one. Or at least the more messed up one. She was the one afraid of a one-horse town and the deadbeat people living in it. He was just the slight PTSD-plagued wingman she had brought along.

"Not tonight. I know you're not watching the game, because the Browns just scored a touchdown and you didn't even do your stupid happy dance." She said this in her bitch voice, the one that automatically let people know how serious she was, in the rare occasions that she wasn't being artificial. Besides, someone once told her that football was only enjoyed by people without college degrees, and she wasn't going to let her man become the epitome of that stereotype.

He simply grunted. She finished kneading the lotion into her skin, and easily slipped off the simple gold band she sometimes wore on her ring finger. The right hand, of course. She had received it for her first communion, when she was only a girl. Her parents had said it was to save and cherish, for when she was old enough to understand the importance. Now she was old enough to understand the value of gold, but too old to understand the value of religion, or lack thereof. When she was satisfied with how smooth her skin was, she crawled into bed on her side, and sat beside him, thus completing her before bed ritual. She picked up the remote, and tossed it on the carpet.

"What's up?" she said in a gentler tone this time, scooting a little closer, and he felt her silky hand on his kneecap under the comforter.

"Was it Rachel?"

"No."

"Was it Kurt?"

"No."

"Was it the Quinn thing?"

Silence.

"You don't have to be so concerned about her. She's a grown woman now, and she's made that perfectly clear. So she wants to march across Ohio for a daughter? Fine. It's what she wants." So some of Santana's comments were rooted in concern for Puck, and absolutely none of it was rooted in concern for Quinn, but most of it? Rooted in jealously.

"What she's doing, getting a daughter just to fulfill some twisted psychological void she has, isn't fair to anyone: her husband or her four other children," he commented. It was a fair justification on Puck's part.

"It's her life." She hoped it would end the conversation.

"I don't care about her the way I care about you, you know that." He considered just telling Santana that he didn't care about Quinn, but that was a lie. He did. Quinn was his first love, and he would never forget that, but he knew that most of the time, the best kind of love was the kind that grew. That first love shit? Completely irrelevant in the context of a whole life's worth of love. So he threw in that last part, to appease Santana, even though he felt she didn't need to hear it.

"Puck…" She didn't want to start this again. They were done with Quinn drama ten years ago. They were done with Beth.

* * *

"_Look, Shelby, I'm leaving town," he said into the phone, his fingers fiddling with the Rubik's Cube Sarah had left on his desk. He felt like he had to tell Shelby, even though, neither Quinn nor him had had any contact with her since the custody fiasco, which was six months ago._

"_What? Where are you going?" Shelby cried from her end of the line._

"_I'm joining the army. I can't stay here and watch this. Everyone's leaving or already gone."_

"_What do you want me to tell Beth?" Shelby asked, even though Beth was only two._

"_Don't tell her anything. Don't ever mention me, or Quinn." _

"_No, I can't do that."_

"_You have to, because I might not come back, and if I do, I'm still not going to be father material."_

_Shelby stayed silent for a moment, as if she was processing this information. Ever since Santana Lopez left town, Puck had done some serious maturing. "Alright then. Stay safe, Noah."_

"_Take care of Beth."_

* * *

"Should I have left Beth?" he said randomly, turning to look into her eyes. If he hadn't given up on Beth like he did, Quinn wouldn't have taken it so hard, and she wouldn't have turned into some crazy emotionless woman.

"You did what you could," she replied coldly. She was starting to feel the familiar sting in her heart again. She could not force herself to care about the infant, who was now surely a teenager, or a tweenager at least.

"So that's a no?"

"No, that's a yes," she asserted, "Beth has a fantastic life. And I one million percent know for a fact that you know you did the right thing. It's just this new Quinn talk that's bringing up all this shit again."

"Yeah," he nodded, "Yeah, I suppose."

More time elapsed, but the silence only grew. The Beth situation was handled, as it had been a decade ago, but the Quinn thing still hung in the air, as it most likely would for the rest of their lives.

He was fine with not being a father. He tried it once, for a few months or whatever, and it wasn't for him. It was too much, and he believed those who were not fathered well couldn't possibility have the ability to father well themselves. It may have been a misconception on his part, but he did not care enough to change his mind. He only wished Quinn could mimic his respectful indifference towards Beth.

"Do you want to pray for her?" Words could not express how awkward and foreign it felt to say those words, especially to him. Nonetheless, she grabbed the gold band off the nightstand and slipped it right back on.

"Since when do you pray?" he asked. It was almost a joke.

"Just because I'm not religious doesn't mean I never forgot how to. And besides, how do you know I don't pray?"

"How could you not with a mother like yours?" he bit back.

She scoffed. But if it worked for Quinn, it would work for her. Besides, it wasn't Santana they were praying for. They were praying for Quinn. She was praying for her ex-best friend/enemy/lover's babymama. God had to give her some brownie points for that.

She clutched his hand under the blanket, forcing him into it before they had no choice.

"Dear Saint Jude, please watch over our friend Quinn on her crusade. Please guide her so she can see that she is taking advantage of her God-given gift as a mother for the wrong reasons. Give her husband and children strength while she embarks on this spiritual journey under your protection. Amen."

"Amen," he mumbled, not really understanding the significance of it all.

"You know you can't help everyone, baby."

"Yeah."

"You tried once."

"Yeah."

"And we've done all that we can."

"Yeah."

"So let's just leave it at that, okay?" she said, stroking his leg. For some reason, he felt as if she was cornering him into a confession of sorts, as if she was tricking him into feelings he wasn't sure he understood. But he wasn't sure what she was doing, or if she was doing anything at all, so he only said, "Sure."

"So two days left in Lima, what are we going to do next?" she said a little too enthusiastically, hoping to change the subject.

"You know I have to like, have dinner with my ma before we leave, right?"

She sighed. "Yeah."

"And you know you have to come with, right?"

She cringed at the thought.

"Come on, Santana. It'll be fine."

She sighed again.

"It's Friday…" he teased, "And you know you've never been to Shabbat…"

She really didn't know why the Puckermans even called Friday Shabbat. They didn't ever do anything remotely Jewish, even. They should have just called it Friday dinner with wine. Or any form of alcohol Allison might have conveniently stored in the pantry. She remembered the only time she came over for Shabbat; she must have been fifteen or so, one of the early years, before either of them realized how unfit she was for Jewish home life. They had run out of alcohol, so they had saluted the Lord's day of rest with vodka. Somehow, she thought the old guy would appreciate it. Allison? Not so much.

* * *

"_So Santana, Noah tells me you're trying out for the cheerleading squad," Allison said, as she set the silverware down on the table. Her son didn't bring home girls often, well, more like ever, and this was a particular treat. _

"_Yeah, hopefully I make it."_

"_Well, if a skinny little thing like you can't, I don't know what kind of school they're running Figgins is running over there," Allison said._

"_You'll totally make it, Santana. I believe in you," chirped Sarah, who had a slight lisp at the moment because she had just lost her front tooth._

_Puck smiled, and realized that maybe he should do this more often. If this went smoothly, his ma would be happy and would quit bugging him after looking for a Jewish girl._

"_Thanks Sarah," Santana said, forcing a smile. She felt more than uncomfortable sitting here, waiting for dinner to start. She wasn't the kind of girl boys brought home to mama. She was the kind of girl mamas warned their boys about._

"_Alright, everybody, eat up," Allison said, setting the last of the dishes down after finishing with the silverware. On the table was a hamburger casserole that Santana was certain every woman in this town made, a Caesar salad, and a loaf of bread that was shaped like a long braid. Sarah promptly helped herself to a large portion of the casserole, dropping a few chunks on the plastic tablecloth._

_Santana was worried for a moment about what she would eat. She could do the salad, but she was sure there was tons of fat in the dressing, just looking at the amount of oil slathered on the iceberg (eww) lettuce. But it would be impolite to refuse the main course. If she had just one serving, maybe she would only have to do half an hour of interval training tomorrow. Or maybe forty-five minutes. She would ask Quinn tomorrow about it; Quinn always knew these types of things. This only left the bread, which was sure to be plain empty carbs. She sent a glare in Puck's direction. He owed her big time for dragging her here on a Friday night. He only shrugged._

_Santana ripped off a small piece of the bread, and placed it in her mouth carefully. The rich texture of the bread fused with her taste buds, and she suddenly had a revelation, wondering why on earth she had been wasting her time at Breadstix when there was obviously better bread at Puck's house._

_She accidently let out a small moan, and she could hear him snicker from the corner of the table. _

"_Oh my god, what is this?" Santana groaned, her eyes closed in a zen, blissful state._

"_Why, it's challah, dear. Don't you know? I thought you were Jewish!"_

* * *

"There's going to be homemade challah…" he continued, tracing his fingers up her side.

That motherfucker.

"Are you going to make me French toast with it the day after?"

"Maybe."

"Fine." She relented, and turned out the lights in the bedroom, hoping to end the conversation. At least now he wouldn't mention visiting her own mother. She slid down so that she was no longer in a sitting position but lying on the bed for slumber. He followed suit, and she turned on her side so that she faced away from the center of their bed. He turned on his side too, to mirror her movements.

"But don't think you're off the hook for visiting your mom," he sniped.

"Just shut up and go to sleep."

* * *

"_Beth, I swear to God, just shut up and go to sleep," Quinn screeched, violently rocking the toddler from side to side. Her arms felt like they were going to fall off any second. Beth continued to cry violently, grabbing at Quinn's long blonde tendrils, which had grown out._

"_Jesus fuck, Quinn. You can't talk to her like that!" he exclaimed, like he was doing any better._

"_Who says? She's my daughter."_

_Oh right. _

"_Why did you do this, Quinn? Why did you take her? It's obvious we don't know what the fuck we're doing."_

"_We cannot give our daughter away to some woman who claims she knows what's best. I mean, she's Rachel's mom, how good at parenting can she be?" Quinn gritted through her teeth._

_Puck sighed and leaned his head backwards on the Fabray's couch, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. A couple of days ago, when Santana had come over to relieve some of the stress this custody thing was giving him, she had told him something as she was leaving. He hadn't really paid attention, but now he knew what she meant. _

"_The more you try with Beth, the more you hurt her." _

* * *

She woke the next morning to the pitter-patter of the angry spray of the shower beating against the wall that separated the bathroom from the rest of the hotel room. Her phone buzzed at that moment, and found that it was a call from reality. She'd been tuned out of her New York societal life for the last week. She'd resisted reading internet blogs, trashy tabloids, all of it. For all she knew, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt could have adopted another child by now. Yet she kind of enjoyed this peace. She had not had to carry the burden of keeping up her celebrity lifestyle here in Lima.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Katie. How's vacation?"

"Anything but actually. It's really weird. I mean, like I'm in the middle of nowhere, and that's relaxing in its own sort of way, you know? But it's super stressful too." Like that made any sense.

"Huh. But you're having a good time?"

"Yeah, I guess. How are you? How's work?" She knew Katie was still in New York, filming extra shoots for the Victoria's Secret website. Santana had declined on that project. The bonus part of being a veteran Angel was getting to pick which projects to work on.

"Yeah, that's kind of what I'm calling about."

"Oh god, Daniel wants me to go on that awful bra tour with you guys, doesn't he?" After the campaign launched, Katie and Coral would tour the country promoting the bra all over the nation, to the average American consumer. All Santana had to do was the easy media press. Go on talk shows, talking about the Invincible bra at parties, that kind of thing.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He wouldn't dare piss you off like that, especially since the media has already claimed you're going to quit." Needless to say, Santana was not going to leave New York to sell a stupid piece of underwear. Across the nation. In a tour bus. With Coral.

"Well, what's the problem then?"

"That guy keeps showing up at shoots, you know, your person…" Katie said, trailing off at the end. Santana immediately woke at that comment.

"What person?" she said rapidly. The whole incentive for coming to Lima was to avoid the media frenzy that would no doubt turn her little fan into a stalker.

"Your, uhm, ex-boyfriend? The Italian guy?"

Oh.

That guy.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh thank God."

"Wait, you like him?"

"No! Never mind. Anyways, what does he want?"

"Well, you. Duh. He keeps asking for you, but no one will tell him where you are, because no one really knows. I mean, except for me."

"Okay, good. Don't tell him where I am. And I'll tell him to tell him to quit bugging you guys."

"Kay, thanks. I just thought you might want to know. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. See you in a few days."

"Yup! Bye!" She ended the call as he came out of the bathroom. She started to compose a text message, but paused briefly to drink in the sight of his chiseled body, which was only wrapped in a towel.

"Who are you texting?" he asked, shaking the droplets of water from his hair, as little hair as there was.

"Ilario."

Now Noah Puckerman was not a particularly cultured or sophisticated man, but he knew that name was male and most likely foreign.

"Who's he?" he quipped. It came out sounding more like a growl than he intended.

"Oh, just this guy from Italy. He's before you, so don't get your panties in a twist, tiger. He's obsessed with me, and keeps showing up in the studio in New York so I'm telling him to fuck off."

"Shit, Santana. Just because you fucked him once or twice doesn't mean he can stalk you too."

"He's not stalking me!" she said melodramatically.

"Fine. Tell him that just because we can't sue his ass in court for harassment doesn't mean I won't kick the shit out of him if I ever see him on the street." Wait, we? Sue? Harassment?

"Jesus Christ, Puck. He's not a stalker. He's just some douche. Calm down," she said again, mocking him silently as she tapped away, holding the phone directly over her face. She wondered why she even bothered to tell him anything if he was just going to jump to conclusions over everything.

"Well, I don't like him bugging you all the time," he said, carefully choosing another verb this time around.

"Ooookay then," she said, finishing her text. She lifted her arm up in the air from her reclined position in bed, and showed him the screen, "See? Totally harmless."

He glanced at the screen, standing over her body. It read, "Stop trying to contact me. I have moved on with my life, and you should too. Santana. "

"What the fuck is that smiley face thing?"

"So I can't even be cordial?"

"It's a text message. There's no such thing as cordial."

"Fine, I'll take out the damn smiley," she grunted, pushing the send key in a final act, "Done."

"Excellent," he replied, collapsing on the bed, caging her body with his and dropping the towel. He started to run his palms up the side of her body, feeling the contours through the silky fabric of her nightgown. He leaned his head down to meet hers, and kissed her.

"Ooh, I like this jealous you," she squealed, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He crouched on his forearms, taking the weight onto his arms, as to not hurt her.

"Who says I'm jealous?" he snarled.

"Me."

He dropped another kiss, this time on her temple, the spot where she felt her skin was the thinnest.

"Oh yeah. I definitely like this." He settled himself between her legs.

And the last thing she remembered saying to him before he made her forget every one of her troubles was, "What a waste of a perfectly good shower."

**Questions to think about and answer if you want. I know some of you LOVE these, and some of you maybe not...**

**1) Is Santana's concern for Quinn genuine or is she being selfish? And is the action justified?**

**Bonus: Who's St. Jude? And how does it relate to Quinn's situation? While we're on that note, is Quinn being irrational and selfish too? Regardless, can Santana and Puck even judge her for it; they barely know one another anymore!  
**

**2) Can you say Puck is a father? Do you agree with his sentiment, those who aren't fathered well cant father well themselves?**

**REVIEW! Rate it even if you hate it. I love hearing from you all. My goal is 200 reviews eventually. Think we can make it happen? :)  
**


	23. Chapter 23

**My gosh, guys. Here's Chapter 23. Can you believe we've made it this far? I'm going to be so sad when it's over. :( **

Santana began her morning ritual, brushing her teeth while her flat iron sat on the counter warming up. She would have to be careful about that; the last time she tried straightening her crazy hair in this hotel room, she short-circuited the whole floor. She wasn't sure who should have been apologizing: her, for, well, short-circuiting the whole floor, or the manager, for running such a shitty establishment. Needless to say, she was tired of hotel life, living out of a suitcase. She missed her New York loft. Good thing they were leaving soon. But she still had one more thing left to do in Lima.

"Ready to go?" Puck called from the bedroom, poking his head through the door jamb. He had his electric razor that she had gotten in some swagbag at some party sometime somewhere in his hand, shaving the stubble off of his jaw.

"What are you doing?" she whined, "I like it when you leave it."

"Sorry, babe. We're going to my mama's for dinner," he said, not in the least way apologetic. Santana pouted, and he came over and kissed her earlobe, his lips catching on the gold hoops she wore. He could feel the head of the toothbrush, whooshing around the inside of her mouth through her skin.

Oh, darn.

She didn't know what she looked forward to less: dinner at the Puckermans or trying to reconcile with her mother, which she absolutely had to do today, or at least try to, because they were leaving tomorrow in the middle of the night. This was their last day in Lima. Strangely enough, she was a little bit excited for both.

"So how about you visit your mom today?" he suggested.

"Yeah, maybe. But I can't just show up," she retorted.

"So call her again. For all you know, she might not even know you're in town. It'll be a nice surprise."

"Yeah, if my jackass dad isn't around." She spit out a mouthful of toothpaste and rinsed her mouth, as if she was erasing her words too.

"You have to try," he said, handing over her phone, glancing at the home screen, which she had changed from the default picture of kittens or something to a bouquet of flowers he had brought back the day before from the farmer's markets (He claimed they were cheap; she knew better). The wildflowers certainly hadn't been red roses, but it was all good. She wasn't a red rose kind of girl anyways.

"Okay," she said, picking up the phone and feeling the weight of it pull her body to the ground so that the coldness of the tile floor penetrated through her skin and made its way up to her core.

She punched in the numbers that were so familiar, and walked through the doorway and slumped onto the edge of the bed. He came around behind her and began to knead her shoulders, which were tense from the intermittent stress and relaxation that came with vacations. She collapsed at his touch and let him send his energy through her.

The dial tone felt like forever, and she started to count music in her head, something she did when she was nervous. Sometimes she would add in choreography she would pull from her head, just for kicks. She used to dance to music, and now she only strutted to it.

1…

Plie…

2…

Kick-ball change…

3…

Releve…

4…

Grand-plie…

1 and 2….

Chasse…

And 3 and 4…

She was certain this had to be the ugliest dance ever.

"Hello?" The connection had been made, and she could hear her mother's warm but formal voice on the other end.

She let the relief and fear sink in, emotions that had sunk in when she realized someone had actually picked up on the other end. It must have been a long moment when she realized that she wasn't talking because he nudged her from behind.

"H-Hello?" she mumbled. When did she lose her voice? Damn it! Not again!

"Yes, who is this?"

"Mama?" she whimpered, hating herself for doing it.

She could hear a clatter in the background. Her mother must have actually dropped whatever she was holding, although the crash ensured Santana that it was, thank god, not her Bible. No pun intended.

"Who is this?" her mother repeated. This time, Isabel's voice was more uncertain, yet more stern. For a moment, Puck could feel Santana tense again, but Santana rested when she realized that Isabel just thought someone was playing a cruel joke on her.

"Mama, it's me. Santana. And I just…I just wanted to say I'm in town. And I would really, really, really like to come home." She could barely get the words out, but she did, releasing a deep breath. He rubbed circles on her back, even tracing a stupid little heart with his fingertip.

"Oh, baby…"

And it only took those two words for Santana to crumble and burst into tears. Her body convulsed, and she shook and shook until her body could not shake anymore, and settled for hiccupping.

"Oh, mom. I'm so glad. I'm so glad." She didn't know why she was repeating things over and over again. Maybe it was because these feelings were too good to be true, so surreal that she had to just make sure she wasn't dreaming, although big dreams had never stopped her before.

"Let me just tidy up a little bit, and you can come over."

"You don't need to do that, mama. You're fine. I'm fine," she laughed through the tears, leaning her head back to rest on his shoulder. He dropped his hands from her shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her stomach from behind. He rested his chin on her shoulders.

"Okay, I need to go now, Santana, but don't you back out on me."

"Yes, mama."

"And don't drive and park your car in the driveway now."

She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be offended or some shit like that, but she understood. Isabel didn't want to take any chances.

"Yes, mama."

* * *

"_So your first time in New York, mom. What do you want to see? Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building?" Santana asked nervously. She didn't know why she kept looking over her shoulder every five seconds. Who was she afraid of seeing them? Her father, who was all the way in Ohio? Or maybe a colleague of hers, who still thought she was from a city somewhere on the West coast?_

"_I don't need any of the tourist stuff, Santana. I just want to know about you," her mother said, although her eyes were staring at the skyscrapers that surrounded them in awe. When Isabel had immigrated to America with her husband from Nicaragua, this was always how she had envisioned America to be. Why they settled in Lima was a mystery, but they had gone on living there too long to move. Santana was secretly relieved her mother didn't want to any of the tacky tourist things, because she herself wouldn't have known how to do them either. _

"_Work is going great. I think I'm going to be promoted to one of the head Angels for the winter catalogue…" Santana knew she couldn't make it sound convincing. Work was not going great. Well, it was financially and career-wise, but everything else was a sham. The other girls hated her, and she had no friends. This part wasn't too much of a stretch, because she never been one for gaggles of girls. And even though she had lived in New York for a few years now, she still felt foreign. She wondered if she would ever call this place home._

"_And it's steady? You think you can keep this up, Santana?" Isabel's words came out like a taunt, daring Santana to come home. _

"_Yes." _

_No. _

_She would prove to her mother and father and everybody else for that matter that Santana Lopez could do something well for once in her life. She could sustain a relationship with her career, even though she had never had any type of healthy relationship with anything._

"_I'm not coming home, mom. I love you. You can come visit me whenever you want, but I'm not going back." She said this, even though she know very well that another visit from her mother was going to be a rarity, if not an impossibility. _

_Isabel looked closer at her daughter. She did not look the same. She did not have the same Santana flavor that had made her deliciously notorious in Lima. She looked worn out and out of her element. She was the shell of the vivacious girl she had once been, for this lifestyle had taken away her spirit and replaced it with a submissive aura of fear._

_The two women turned the corner on the sidewalk, walking past all the expensive boutiques. To Isabel, every block looked the same, and Isabel stopped in her tracks out of habit to make sure she knew where she was._

"_Come on, mom. We want to beat the afternoon rush." Santana looked over her shoulder again and beckoned to her mother, who was a couple steps behind her. Her mother nodded._

"_One could get lost in these streets," Isabel replied, looking straight at her daughter._

* * *

"You ready?" he asked from the front seat of his truck, looking over at her. He had picked up his old car the other morning. It had been waiting for him all these years at Burt's storage garage. He pulled up in front of the Lima Heights Adjacent house. Although he had known Santana since they were fifteen, he could count on one hand the number of times he had been to her house. And he had only met Isabel twice. Everything else he had heard through Santana.

She was shining in the passenger seat, her eyes misty with excitement. He didn't need an answer.

"Okay, I'll pick you up in a little bit."

"Okay. Bye," she hollered as she jumped out of the car. She looked like a kindergartener getting off the school bus on the first day of school, beaming with eagerness.

She trotted up the front steps, smoothing her wool pencil skirt, trying to calm the windy flyaways in her hair.

She rang the doorbell, her fingernail grazing the rust that was growing over the screen door. She cursed her cheap-skate father, who despite having a white-collar job, would not spare the extra dollars to give her mother a nice house and nice belongings. But it wouldn't have mattered anyways. Her mother was too proud and too dignified to accept material items anyways.

When the door opened, she was surprised at how old her mother looked. She was in her 60s now, and the silver streaks in her hair couldn't be hidden, no matter how complicated a chignon she used to try and disguise them. Her mother's previously wrinkle free forehead had wrinkles now, and her lips, painted coral with cheap lipliner—Santana could tell—were pursed in a thin line. Only her eyes remained bright.

The two women did not exchange words; they simply embraced and held on for dear life.

When Santana got inside, she was surprised by the look of the house she had grown up in. Although her mother had changed, the house had not. It looked exactly the same, like it had been frozen in time. None of the technology had been updated. The flat screen plasma her parents bought her senior year remained hooked onto the living room wall. Santana was sure that if she turned it on, there would be years of telenovellas saved on the DVR. That was the problem with Latinas. Telenovellas. They had made her mother weak and sappy. Which was why the only form of television Santana watched was the new reality show about female mobsters. Those women certainly were not romantic.

The mantle still housed several Virgin Mary figurines and a couple of Santana's school pictures from grade school, and one of her with Dolly Parton when Dolly had come to the mall for a concert tour. She and her mother had waited in line for three hours, but it was worth it. One central thing had changed though. Above the mantle, once where a giant family portrait had been mounted, was a new portrait, just of her mother and father sitting in a drab, grey studio. To any random person, the portrait would not seem out of the ordinary. But this new portrait was slightly smaller than the old one, and Santana could see a border of fresh yellow paint around the piece, where the old piece had protected the wall paint from fading.

Santana snickered when she saw that her father's Barcalounger housed a deeper butt-impression than it had ten years ago. She used to call that chair the pity chair, for every night when her father came home, he would sit in the chair and talk about how hard his day was, working for so long. Her mother ate it all up, but Santana was disgusted at his helplessness.

Next to the Barcalounger though, was the only sign that the Lopez family even had a daughter over the age of eighteen. On the night stand was a small framed Vogue cover, her first and only up until now. It was at least eight years old, because she had landed it when she was 20. She had the exact same picture blown up and put in her den. Once she had come home, and Puck had drawn obscene things all over the glass frame in dry-erase marker. She had been livid until he wiped it all off, after laughing his ass off. Then she was just pissed at the fucking prick.

Santana sat down on the couch, and her mother sat across from her, her hands folded in her lap. She handed her mother the expensive eye cream she liked, the Crème de la Mer. If her mother actually knew how much it cost, Santana was sure she would be paying for surgery for a cardiac arrest. Her mother took it appreciatively, and kindly suggested that perhaps it was time Santana started wearing it. Santana ignored the dig.

"How long have you been in town?" Isabel started.

"About a week."

"Oh. See any of your old school friends?"

"A couple," Santana said nonchalantly, taming a flyaway hair.

"You know, Quinn just had another baby. He's absolutely beautiful." Santana was a little bit agitated by the fact that her own mother knew Quinn better than she knew Santana, but Santana knew that was no one's fault but her own.

"Well, that's Quinn for you."

"When are you going to have some of your own?" Isabel rightfully pried. Santana grazed the edge of the sofa cushions with her fingertips, feeling the tweed itch at her cuticles.

"I'm not."

"You know, Santana, if Quinn can do it, so can you."

"Mom, Quinn can most certainly not do it. She treats her children like projects, not people."

Isabel let the conversation rest at that point, because she knew Santana had a point there.

"What about Brittany? You two used to be so close," Isabel commented. She had never fully understood the context of her daughter's relationship with Brittany S. Pierce. All she knew was that for nearly a decade, they had been more than inseparable, and then the two had just stopped being friends suddenly one day.

"I don't know. Isn't she still out in Los Angeles with Artie?" Santana commented herself nonchalantly. She had never understood the end of their friendship either. All she knew was that she had outgrown Brittany one day in high school, and never looked back. She didn't give a flying fuck what Brittany was doing, as long as she wasn't dead.

"I suppose she is then," Isabel said with a tone of finality.

And that was that.

* * *

"_What are you doing here?" he asked mindlessly, as if a girl hopping through his bedroom window was just something that happened every day. For him and Santana, it was almost a weekly basis. Whether the fact that they got away with it every time was pathetic or impressive, he didn't know. But he was going to go with the latter._

_They were currently stuck in a trough in the wavelength of their relationship. Of course, they continued to hook up on a regular basis, but they certainly weren't as close as they had been once. _

"_I'm done," she declared, not feeling particularly triumphant or sad._

"_With?" Santana had a million things going on. She was just starting into the whole modeling shindig, and even though he was the one who suggested it, he didn't really expect her to go all out._

"_Brittany."_

_He stopped what he was doing and looked up. Naturally, he had always known what the deal was with the two girls, but they never talked about it. _

"_Why?" He knew he sucked as a conversation partner right now, but he didn't know why she was starting to act like they were best friends again at this very moment._

"_Because. She's never going to get it. And I'm going to stop trying."_

_He understood, even though she spoke in few words. He had never understood why Santana had hung out with Brittany. Yeah, she was hot, and kind of funny, and sweet. But she was also kind of dumb. She and Santana were on two separate levels. Puck didn't get how two completely different people even had anything to talk about._

"_Cool," he shrugged, "As long as you're giving up only Brittany, not who you are."_

"_I know," she promised. She would never give up on herself, bisexual or not. _

* * *

"So where's dad?" Santana said awkwardly, when they had run out of small talk topics. Surely her mother was expecting that question sooner or later.

"He's chaperoning Lola's cheerleading fieldtrip to the city."

Santana didn't know which part of that sentence was more comical: her father chaperoning any school function, or the fact that it was her annoying little cousin's school function. She remembered Lola. She was a prissy attention whoring preteen when Santana last left. Why was _her_ father chaperoning _Lola's _fieldtrip to Dayton, when all he had said when his own daughter had announced she was going to New York City for Glee Club, was well, nothing?

"Now I know what you're thinking Santana. But your father, he has taken your absence very hard." Santana didn't know why her mother kept talking like she was dead or something. On that same note, Santana didn't know why this entire house seemed as if she was dead.

"No, you don't know what I'm thinking, mom. And he doesn't have to. I'm still here, you know. Just not here. I don't need him to pursue a relationship with me, or anything. I don't care."

"Oh, let's not fight about that again, Santana." Isabel's lips pursed into a thin line.

"Mom, how can you even live with him? He's such a prick!"

"Your father is a good man, Santana Lopez, and don't you ever forget it. And you will find when you get old enough, Santana, that love can be learned." It was the only time during the whole conversation Isabel had raised her voice, and Santana was only slightly startled.

"Come on, let's talk about something happy now. Are you seeing anybody?" Isabel inquired. Santana scoffed because surely her mother knew the answer to that.

"Why don't you just Google it?"

Her mother stayed silent, and Santana was unsure as to whether or not that meant Isabel already had, or actually knew nothing about her daughter.

"Well, I guess I am them," Santana said.

"Who is he?"

"Noah Puckerman," Santana said, knowing very well it was the kiss of death for her mother to hear it.

"Really, Santana? Not him."

* * *

_Isabel sat in her husband's Barcalounger, a glass of wine on the table and a copy of _Love in the Time of Cholera_ in her hand. The fireplace roared behind her, and the magical realism of the tale was almost enough to make her forget her loneliness. It must be deep into the morning now. She glanced up at the grandfather clock in the room, her eyes peering over her reading glasses. It was late, one in the morning, and her husband had still not returned from an emergency surgery consult._

_She heard a tiptoeing down the stairs, and Isabel sighed. It was the third night this week Santana had tried sneaking out. The first time she let it slide, but the second, she had stopped her daughter in her tracks and turned her right back around into her bedroom. Of course, that didn't really mean anything, because Santana just as easily could have jumped out her bedroom window onto the roof and shimmied down the gutter. It wouldn't have been the first time._

"_I can hear you Santana Maria. Don't even think about it…" Isabel warned, continuing to read._

_Santana slumped her shoulders and walked down the rest of the stairs and met her mother in the den._

"_Mom, please I need to go. I have to tonight. I can't leave him alone," Santana pleaded._

_Isabel sighed and took off her reading glasses, setting the book down. She rubbed her thumbs on the bridge of her nose._

"_Santana…"_

"_He just lost his baby, mom. He needs me."_

_Isabel had only met Noah Puckerman once, at a football game. He had been a decent running-back, and a decent boyfriend to Santana back in the day, as far are she knew. But what Noah Puckerman needed was a father figure, sex education, after school tutoring. Not her daughter._

_Whether or not her daughter needed Noah Puckerman, though, was a whole other question, and Isabel wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer._

* * *

"Yes, him, mom. You don't even know him," Santana declared annoyedly, and she felt herself heating up, her temper flaring. This conversation was getting too diplomatic. Weren't family reunions supposed to be joyous?

"He is serious about you then? And you feel the same?" Isabel knew she was prying, but she had to, out of concern for her daughter. Noah Puckerman had always been bad news.

Santana nodded, and she knew what her mother was thinking. Marriage. Commitment. Babies. Settling down. All things Santana tried to avoid in general. And for that reason, hoping that this would be the last time that night, Santana changed the subject again.

"So, tell me all about you, Mom. What have you been up to?"

**So, what'd you think? Drop me a review! Please and thank you. xoxo.**

**Questions to think about, and answer if you want to make me happy. I will say though, between their reviews and my responses, that those who answer these often understand the story better and on multiple levels.**

**1) Consider Isabel's sentiment, "One could get lost in these streets." What does she mean? And don't give me that literal crap! **

**2) Consider Isabel's other sentiment, "Love can be learned." How has Santana applied this in her life without even knowing it? And is learned love considered "Real" love?  
**

**And tell me any other significant bits you see!  
Until next time guys!  
**


	24. Chapter 24

**Bleh. There are some parts of this I utterly abhor, and some parts I simply adore. But I can't keep editing it so here we goooooo!**

**And thank you for all the lovely reviews last chapter! Excuse my ignorance, but what is this Pucktana balloon? I know its the collective term for Pucktana shippers on the internet or whatever, but where is it? And what do you guys do? I'm so intrigued!  
**

"How was Mama Lopez?" he asked as he pulled up to the driveway, rolling down the window, leaning over to unlock the door.

"The usual," Santana said as she popped into the passenger's seat of the car. It was only six o' clock in Lima, Ohio, but it was already dark out. The streetlamps illuminated her dewy skin and he could sense a rejuvenated aura orbiting her.

"That bad, huh?" he commented as he let go of the parking brake. He heard her click in her seat belt, and it was his signal to go.

"No, it was good. I mean, I love my mom, you know that. Maybe more than you love your mom. But my dad's still the prick he is, and he wasn't even there," she explained.

The rain was pouring down outside, as if this was Seattle, not Middle America, and to make things worse, the wind was raging as well. They had experienced few storms growing up, but they knew they were in the midst of one. "Be careful," she said in a cautionary tone. Few cars were on the road, for good reason.

"Chill out, babe. I got this," he brushed off her concerns, for they were only driving on an flat arterial at 30 miles an hour, and he continued with their previous conversation,

"Well, you know, some people just can't change. There's only so much a guy can take." He wasn't sure how to console Santana. He wasn't even sure if she needed consolation.

"Are you defending him?"

"What? No! I mean, well, kind of. Santana, he isn't as bad as you think. He loved you, supported you when you came out, dealt with your career."

"Shut up, you don't even know," she bit back, and the little tantrum fizzled, just as she heard another rumble of thunder, "So what did you do for the last three hours?"

But a tree branch swung across their windshield, blocking their vision momentarily.

A trash can lid hit the side of the car, and the car shook with vibrations moments later when it landed on the sidewalk with a loud clunk.

The streetlights flickered, trapping them in a cycle of darkness and illumination.

He blanked.

She screamed.

And he swerved the car.

* * *

_He slept uninterrupted, dreaming of video games and homemade gingerbread and other luxuries he didn't have here in the middle of the desert. It was a loud boom that awoke him from his slumber, and he felt strong arms shaking him. It was Hal._

"_Come on, man! We have work to do!" Hal yelled._

"_What's happening?" he struggled to keep up, as he grabbed his gear. Hal was already halfway out the door._

"_War is happening, that's what."_

_He ran out, and saw that there was an orange tint to the horizon. It was if someone had lit the earth ablaze in the distance, and most likely, someone had._

_He jumped onto the Humvee, and their troop traveled the three miles into town, which only consisted of an orphanage and a couple of shops. The town was silent, except for a couple more booms in the distance, and although most people would accredit that to the time of night, he knew that it was because of fear. They could be attacked any second._

_Like right now._

_A giant flash filled his entire peripheral vision, blinding him and knocking him off guard. He was sure his ears blew out, because when he came to, he was sitting on a pile of rubble and his ears were ringing. The town was in smithereens. _

_It was then that the people started to make noises. Stirs, then groans, then cries. He looked up and he could finally see civilians, lying in various broken positions. _

_That day, he realized how unethical and selfish it was to have children, when there were so many dying out here._

_That day, he noticed how ridiculous this war was, where people were bombing other people so often that most times, he didn't know who the victim was._

_That day, he knew could never unsee what he had seen._

* * *

When they stopped, they found that they were situated in between two lanes, right in front of a stoplight. The stoplight changed from green to red.

She looked over at her lover. "What. The. Fuck. Was. That?" she demanded. She knew Noah Puckerman like she knew the back of her hand. He was not a bad driver. He was not freaked out easily. The man had been in the military, for God's sake.

He would not respond, and it was then that she noticed his hands were cradled in his lap, shaking. She leaned over and pulled down the parking brake, suspending their movement. Rain continued to cascade outside of the confines of their car. The stoplight changed back from red to green. They did not move.

"The lights. The noise," he mumbled. He was speaking in sentence fragments, and Santana did not know what that necessarily meant. But she knew exactly what he was trying to say.

"Oh, Jesus fuck," she said, leaning back and resting her head on the cool headrest of her seat, breathing hard. She knew he had not returned from war invincible, but she had been trying to convince herself for months now that he was fine. Another car rolled up behind them, on the left side lane, the one they were half-blocking.

"I'm fine. Let's go," he said suddenly, regaining his composure. He put his hands back on the steering wheel, only to drop his right hand again, to release the parking brake. She knocked it away.

"You're not fine," she asserted. The car behind them honked. She ignored it. He didn't notice.

"I am," he steadily responded. Why did he feel like they had had this conversation before, but the other way around?

"Well, I am not going anywhere with you in this car, so you either admit it, or I am just going to get out right now and walk," she said quietly, glancing out the window. She could hardly see the houses on the street, for the rain was so heavy. Her voice was thick, as if she had just finished crying or was just about to start.

"Fuck, Santana. Are you…. Are you scared of me? Do you feel safe with me?" He rested his forehead on the steering wheel as his voice shook. The car behind them finally got the message that the two of them were not leaving anytime soon, and switched lanes on the opposite side of the road, driving away. Santana watched the taillights of the car fade into the distance from her passenger seat view.

She did not respond for a moment, but when she did, she said her words with such conviction that he was forced to listen to her. "I always feel safe with you. But you came back from war. And you can't just expect to be back to normal like that. Your wounds…your wounds are invisible." She almost couldn't eke the last sentence out. She discovered that it was much harder to admit someone you love's problems than your own. This was something she did not expect. It was a phenomenon of sorts.

"So what do you want me to do about it, Santana? Since you seem to know every fucking thing for some reason now?" he yelled, raising his voice at her, staring into her eyes. She did not flinch, but continued to look straight. She noticed that the stoplight going spastic now, flickering erratically from red to green. On the other hand, she felt the rain abide slightly, for the pitter patter droplets she heard hitting the roof of the car were less loud.

"Go get help. PTSD is serious. Sleeping pills every other night isn't going to cut it," she said this as if she had the slightest idea what she was talking about. She didn't. But if he knew she was shaking in her boots, he would wimp out too.

"Whose sleeping pills do you think I'm taking?" he retorted.

She swallowed a gulp of empty air. It tasted stale, like the two of them had been recycling this oxygen in this tiny car for too long. It was a fair assertion, a fair judgment. She had her problems and he had his. But they couldn't fix both of them at the same time.

Sometimes loving a person just meant leaving them alone. But Santana would not leave him alone. She would not give up on this. She _refused_ to.

Moments passed as the two sat in solitude. The stoplight finally just blacked out, as the rain halted to a drizzle. He watched droplets on his window scooch over to one another and merge into bigger drops. That was like a war in itself.

Finally, he looked up. He didn't say a word, but he unclicked his seat belt and unlocked his door. He got out of the car. She did the same, and they passed each other in front of the car. She felt the tread on her boots give way a little on the slick asphalt, and she put her palm out on the hood of the car to steady herself. The two of them exchanged positions, so she was now sitting in the driver's seat. He shuffled into the passenger seat.

She adjusted the seat and got ready. She released the parking brake, which had been utilized so many times in this one conversation. When she put her hand on the gear shift, she looked over at him. He returned the gaze. She leaned over and gave him a single kiss, their wet foreheads touched.

"You smell like the rain," he commented softly.

And that was how she knew that she had won this battle, although he would emerge as the winner eventually.

She started the car, and drove the miles to the Puckerman home for the both of them. They soon arrived.

He had warned his mother before coming. Sort of. He had simply told Allison that he was bringing the girl he had been seeing to dinner. Allison knew that her son was staying with a woman in New York, but didn't know who.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. My tights just got caught on that stupid bush. They're going to run!" she yelled as she hobbled up the porch steps behind him. She was deliberately idling behind him, hoping his body would shield her from the silent wrath of Allison Puckerman.

"It's fine, Santana," he laughed.

"That's easy for you to say. She's not allowed to hate you; you're her fucking kid," Santana hissed. Puck knocked on the door.

"Just stop swearing, and you'll do good."

"Right. I forgot how bad of a kid you were. Maybe I'll look better next to you."

He chuckled again, and they heard someone coming to open the door. Santana scooched her body behind his.

The door swung open. Allison wasn't really looking forward to this dinner either. She did not want to share her son's last day home with this girl he was bringing. She saw her beaming son, who stood tall. She reached out to hug him but noticed there was a figure hiding behind him.

Then Noah moved over, unobstructing Allison's view.

"Surprise!"

Santana Lopez said these words with a shaky enthusiasm.

"Santana," Allison said, equally as enthusiastic.

"You remembered," Santana commented. Puck looked back at her, as if to say, "See?"

"How could I not?" was the rhetorical question Allison responded with. Allison decided to extend her hand out, to the poor girl who was practically shaking in her boots. From the cold or something else?

Santana was at a loss, because few people in her life had ever been the first to extend kindness, but she settled on shaking Allison's hand, because how could she not?

Allison's pulse jumped in her body. "What cold hands you've got there!"

This time it was Noah who chimed in, "You should feel her feet at night," referring to the way Santana got overheated when she slept under heavy blankets, and always stuck her feet out of the edges of the blanket, because anything else would be too cold. Of course, this just left her with cold feet, but her overall body temperature was perfect for sleeping, or so she claimed.

Santana glared at him, and Allison's smile faltered for a moment. She did not want to be in a position where her son could tell her about such things. Regardless, the three of them walked through the door, and were soon bombarded by a lanky girl, who certainly could not have been his kid sister!

"Noah!" she yelled, wrapping her arms around Puck. Santana scooched out of the way again, and wasn't sure how to react. Allison walked to the kitchen to set the table. When the embrace broke, Sarah turned to Santana.

"Santana!" Sarah yelled again, this time wrapping her arms around the equally surprised Santana.

"Oh, hi there! Oh, gosh!" Santana said, startled by the affection. She glanced over at him, and he was doing that smirk thing. "Wow, Sarah! You're so big now!" she said again, when their hug ended. She was surprised at the lack of animosity Sarah felt towards her. Maybe this was proof that kids didn't remember anything important. Sarah was like eight when she left, right?

"Okay, catch up later, kiddos. It's dinnertime!" Allison yelled as she poked her head out. The three of them obliged, and it was as if they were babies being herded by babysitters on Friday night again. They sat down, and toasted to each other.

And over challah and pasta, the four talked and talked, and Santana found that maybe, this family thing wasn't so bad after all. This was how she had imagined normal people her age lived. Quinn must have done this all the time, sitting at the table with Finn and Kurt and Burt and Carole and all twenty of her kids or whatever.

"So you two are living together then?" Allison said pointedly, in between spearing two meatballs. Santana glanced over at him and raised her eyebrows. Sarah snickered.

"Uh, yeah, Ma. It's working out really well," Puck said, and by that, he meant there was no more need for your place or mine.

Allison said nothing, for her suspicions were confirmed. "Are you keeping my son in line, Santana?" she asked, only half joking.

Santana couldn't escape this time, for the question was only directed at her. "Oh, absolutely Allison."

"She makes me clean up the dirt I track in and all that," he added, hoping to add to Santana's credibility. The truth was, neither of them could ever keep each other "in line."

"I'm glad someone's grown up," Allison smiled, "You must have a nice place then, Santana."

"It's not too bad, there's a doorman and stuff," Santana said, brushing it off. She didn't like bringing attention to herself and her wealth in this way.

"Is there a hot tub?" Sarah quipped, thinking of all the visiting possibilities already.

Santana looked over at Puck and the two smiled. "Yes," they both answered at the same time. They were very well acquainted with this hot tub.

This time it was Allison who felt like an outsider. Her little boy had found another to subsist with. They stopped talking about Santana, thank God, and they moved on to menial subjects, like Sarah's upcoming college applications (because someone in this family was going to go to college on time, thank you very much), and the new additions to the McKinley High building.

As dinner finished, Santana excused herself to use the restroom. While she was not hyperventilating in a paper bag, she was splashing her face with water, wiping off the rest of her makeup in the process. Oh, whatever.

Meanwhile, he was talking in the kitchen with his mother, helping her clear the table.

"What is this going back to school thing, Noah?"

He shrugged as he picked up Santana's dirty dish, and noticed she ate all of her meal—her gooey, carb-loaded, processed macaroni and cheese.

"Might as well, I mean, what else am I going to do?"

For Allison, this comment solidified the relief she felt, hearing that her son would not return to the military.

"Why? Do you not want me to?" he continued.

"No, Noah," Allison started, "Big dreams are fine. They're great. But as long as they're your dreams, and nobody else's."

He looked up at his mother, "What do you mean? Whose else would they be?"

Allison only looked at her son.

"Santana?" he yelped, nearly dropping the dish.

"Well, Noah, you know she has such a spell over you," Allison said, not a hint of resentment in her voice, although there might have been some in her heart.

"This was totally my idea, Ma! She didn't even know," he explained.

"All right, well I just don't want you thinking that you need to keep up with Santana and her glitzy lifestyle," Allison said, picking up the last of the dishes.

Puck was confused. How did going back to school mean keeping up with Santana's "glitzy lifestyle"? And didn't she know that Santana was moving so fast, nobody—not even her past—could catch up to her? Sometimes that scared him, that maybe he wouldn't be able to keep up with her, and although a college degree would help him, it was certainly not the reason why he was going back to school.

"Nah, Ma, I'm doing this for me," he said, walking over to the sink with her.

"All right, as long as you're paying for it," Allison grumbled. At least her son was doing something, even if he would be the oldest in his class.

It was then that Santana walked back into the kitchen, her face rubbed and raw. Allison realized what a pretty girl Santana was, but how different she looked from all the ads and commercials on television. Santana was the kind of girl whose facial expressions gave everything away. She was not one for delicate features.

"Let me help you with those, Allison," Santana offered. Her abuela had taught her right, "Babe, I think Sarah wanted help with her math homework or something."

"Oh, okay," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. He supposed that between the two of them, he was the one who actually finished high school, but she definitely could have too. He slipped out of the kitchen, giving her a kiss on the cheek that she surprisingly didn't deny.

Santana walked over the kitchen and took his place, and started to dry the dishes Allison handed her. Both of them looked down at their respective tasks. They were close enough though that Santana could smell the undeniable scent of Jergens lotion on Allison's skin. Likewise, Allison could smell Santana's expensive perfume; she didn't know what it was, but it smelled spicy and woodsy at the same time. She couldn't imagine Santana being a floral or fruity scented girl, and Allison decided it was simply the perfume of money.

Now Santana Lopez was never Allison's first choice for a mate for her son, but it seemed like this thing the two of them had going here was working out. They had managed to stick it out for so long. But as it was with anything the two kids did, it was serious but unstable. And now really, would it be that awful if her son stayed with Santana forever? She would never get grandchildren, this she knew, but her son would be happy, and the two of them would be financially secure with a myriad of opportunities in the city.

It was Allison who broke the silence first, interrupting the uniform sounds of synchronized scrubbing and suds splashing. "I knew, you know."

Santana stopped drying. "Knew what?" she asked, alarmed. There were many things about her that she didn't want Allison, or anyone for that matter, to know about.

"About you. What my son was doing out there in New York," Allison didn't stop her washing, and Santana took this to mean that she shouldn't either. So Allison had known all along.

"Oh. How?" Santana asked, relieved.

"Moms are pretty smart, Santana. When have I ever not known about you? And there's always Google," Allison quipped.

Right. But that would mean Allison had been Googling _her_, not Puck, because Santana had kept him away from the media, and was going to continue to do so for as long as she could manage.

"Why? Is there something else I should know?" Allison queried.

"No, no. Everything's fine. It's great."

They finished the last couple of dishes in silence. When they were done, Santana started to head out, to find Puck and Sarah.

"Wait," Allison interrupted, "I have something for you." When Allison returned, she was carrying a small envelope. Santana did not recognize the envelope, but she had a feeling what could be inside.

"A few weeks ago, a reporter came by," Allison began. Santana was immediately alarmed, and her mind started going crazy in the way that it did whenever she felt threatened. "I didn't tell him anything, of course, but I can't imagine that everybody else in this town did the same." Of course.

"Anyways, Santana. I found these in Noah's old room, and you may think it's none of my business, but it is. I'm here on this Earth to protect my son. And you brought him home to me, so I'm here to protect you too. I think you better get rid of these, before you find yourself in an unfavorable situation with the press," Allison finished, handing over the envelope. Santana quickly took a peek inside and didn't know whether her face was turning pink from the shame or white from the fear. She quickly slipped the photos back into the envelope and shut her eyes tightly.

* * *

_She was at a loss._

_She knew she had to go the New York. But at what cost?_

_Her parents (namely her father) would disown her, no doubt. And her abuela already had, so no biggie. The Glee Club would probably never let her live this one down and probably give her some mushy talk about being a family, but that never meant anything to her, really._

_Puck._

_If she went to New York, they were done. She knew this. He would deny it, and maybe she would for a couple of weeks, but when she returned home, she knew he would be a different person, with a different girl on his arm. It was in his nature and hers too. Out of sight, out of mind. None of that absence makes the heart grow fonder shit._

_It would be worth it though, a fair trade. Stardom and glory for a lost high school flame._

_It was settled. She'd be gone, but not without a fight._

_What kind of "girlfriend" would she be if she just left him alone with nothing to remember her by? So she called up best girlfriend and asked a favor._

_When Brittany arrived, Santana had already changed into a satin slip. She changed the lighting in her room a little bit, adjusted the décor. Santana thrust a camera at Brittany._

"_What am I taking pictures for?"_

"_Not what. Who," Santana replied, sitting on the edge of her bed, shaking her wild mane of hair out._

"_Oh, are they a present?"_

"_Yes. Yes, they are."_

_And with that, Santana pulled the slip over her head and the clicks began._

_The things she would do for the camera that day were not that far from what she would make a living doing a couple years down the road. The difference was in the naivete of the poses, the amateur intimacy of the shots, the fuzzy quality of the photos that indicated a rushed immaturity to the moment. Regardless, she felt no regret about it at the moment, because she knew this was exactly what she wanted._

* * *

When she finally opened her eyes, she quietly thanked Allison. Then she went and hugged the older woman, catching her off guard. Allison nonetheless returned the hug.

"I'll take good care of him, Allison. Don't you worry," Santana said, wiping away the few tears that had escaped, tucking the pictures into her dress pocket. The kindness that Allison Puckerman showed her, a girl who had done nothing but ruin her son's life, was unknown to Santana. "And if you ever need any help, with Sarah, and bills, and college, and all that, just call. He doesn't have to know. Just call."

She tried to make it sound less like she was buying Allison—because she wasn't trying to—but she wasn't sure if the message was coming across.

"I understand, Santana. Thank you," Allison said, squeezing the girl's cold hand, knowing that there was a warm heart in there somewhere.

**Question:**

**1) I haven't really been very explicit about it in my writing, but there's tidbits of satire in my work, and one big overarching satire for the whole story. Perhaps the most obvious is in chapter 19. Anyone spot any satire?**

**Sorry guys, but I can't for the life of me remember what else I was going to ask. But I didnt get any responses for the last chapters questions, so you literary analysis buffs can go back and answer those? I'd love to hear what you have to say.  
**

**I'm thinking the last chapter will be the next chapter. If anyone has any super objections, I would love to hear, because I'm not sure how resolved I want the plot to be by the end. And Julia, message me darling, I need some literary advice.  
**


	25. Chapter 25

**My dear readers, I am so sad to see this story come to an end, but in the words of the wise Oscar Wilde, "Books are never finished; they are merely abandoned." **

**I don't want you all to think I am abandoning this story, because I truly feel like this is the place to stop. I have planned since the beginning there would be this many chapters, and I intend to stick to my intentions. It's just that if I keep going (which I could), I would just never stop and the story would suffer. Please don't feel like I am abandoning you, because you know I could never stop writing. I finish this story on a happy note. **

**If you had asked me a year ago, I never would have thought I could have accomplished this. I read somewhere that 60 to 70 thousand words is a novel. Well, I think we just kicked that novel's ass with this. So thank you, reader, whether you have stuck with me from the beginning or you are just picking up now. Thank you for joining me on this crazy, exhilarating journey. This is maybe the one thing in my life I am most proud of, and it's not just because of the words I have put on a page, or the story I have spun from almost nothing, but it is because of the satisfaction and love and I have received from all of you. So again, thank you, and adieu. For now. **

**Enjoy.**

They walked through the airport, his shuffled footsteps struggling to keep up with the taps of her boot heels. And maybe she would never admit it, but Santana had enjoyed this trip home. It was not nearly as bad as she expected it to be, thus, Santana decided that from now on, she would just lower her expectations about life, so that everything would work out in the end. Regardless, she was happy and eager to return to civilization, to the life she had left in New York.

The same could not be said for her lover.

Puck, on the other hand, kept looking over his shoulder every five seconds. She didn't know what he expected, for they had taken a cab to the airport, and certainly no paparazzi were trailing them here in the Lima Airport.

After she had let some disgusting greasy security guy grope her, she had reached her limits. Plus, the security people had confiscated her take-out box of breadsticks from Breadstix. Their plane was going to leave in a bit, and they were running a little behind. Allison had made quite a scene regarding her son's departure, demanding that he return in a month, which was very unlikely. Isabel on the other hand, had given Puck a curt nod and hugged her daughter, perhaps for the last time, which was very likely.

"Why do you keep doing that? It's pissing me off," she deadpanned as they walked to their gate.

"Will you just hold up, Santana? Who knows when we'll be back here again?"

"_We_ won't ever be back in this shithole. You can come back whenever you like. I am going to refrain though, thank you very much." She continued marching towards the gate.

"Come on, you don't mean that. You love this place," he leaned forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her a little off-balance so that she tumbled towards him in her killer heels. She smashed into him, and he grabbed her, swaying her back and forth despite her protests. Never mind that they were in the middle of a public place, albeit a public place in the middle of nowhere, and Santana Lopez hated these types of public displays of affections. "Don't you ever wish you were just a normal person here, without having to deal with fame and all that shit? I could be a grease monkey and you could, like be a hot substitute teacher, or something," he continued. She rolled her eyes at his immature irrationality. "You know, like Finn and Quinn." It was then that she placed her palms on his chest and pushed him aside.

She stood akimbo, one hand on her hip, giving him her bitch stare.

"First of all, don't liken me to Quinn," she said this in a way that implied that she was not really annoyed at him for the comment, "and secondly, don't you dare cite Finn Hudson to me ever again." She said that last part with a seriousness that let him know that he had maybe crossed the line with that simile. He gave her an apologetic smile, and she smirked, knowing that she had won. The bottom line? Quinn was a bitch but at least that was funny. Finn was a misogynist jerk that had outted her to the world, and that wasn't funny.

"Okay, okay," he said, tossing his hands up in the air, surrendering, "Let's go home." But his words were unconvincing, for he had that pathetic sad puppy dog look on his face that made her cringe. And maybe, she felt kind of bad for making him do this, for dragging him into her crazy life and depriving him of the life she knew he wanted. So her eyes lit up, she took a few steps backwards, held out her hand, and began to sing.

"This time, baby, I'm not leaving without you," she sung, looking absolutely ridiculous. It was his turn to laugh at her. He would have joined in, but Lady Gaga wasn't quite his thing. He chuckled and took her hand, sure that she was worth every sacrifice. She skipped off through the gate, flashing her ticket to the attendant, and disappeared onto the plane, with him right next to her.

And the whole flight home, she held his hand, making sure that the son of a bitch would never leave her. He didn't dare.

When they stepped off the plane hours later at JFK, Santana was immediately inundated by the intensity of the city. It was only the wee hours of the morning, but the sidewalks were alive and she felt like she was being reawakened after a long slumber. He walked a few feet behind her instinctively to the cab that was waiting, because he knew Santana didn't like being photographed with anybody by the press. He took no offense at this, and tried to respect her wishes. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses, but of course, paparazzi had spotted her already. Now Santana had endured her share of media frenzies, but she had luckily never experienced a scandal. Not yet.

Photographers, reporters, cameras, and microphones were being shoved in her face, and she tried to push through them, using her arm to break a path. Of course she hadn't called for a bodyguard today, that was stupid of her. Whatever, they couldn't say anything she couldn't handle.

"Santana!"

"Santana! Over here!"

"Santana! Where've you been?"

"Santana! Is it true you're being fired?"

"Santana! Are you ever going to tell us who the hottie you've been seen with is?"

She didn't respond to any of the questions and continued to walk briskly. He decided to just screw it, and caught up with Santana, grabbing her and shielding her from the cameras, leading her into the cab. She let him. Of course this meant that the camera bulbs just went off more, but at least they made it into the cab alive.

When they made it through the door of her apartment, well, their apartment he supposed, the smell of her apartment enveloped her. Before, it smelled like hairspray and potpourri, but it was now rank with the smell of men. She disappeared into her walk-in closet to change out of her traveling clothes. She always left the door slightly ajar when she changed; she thought this was a particularly sweet sentiment on her part, for a woman to change in front of a man so carelessly. He followed her into the huge closet, full of designer freebies and stocked to the ceiling with untouched clothing. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen Santana go shopping for clothes. She was much more of a "bling" person, as she had always been. And that was when he got the idea.

"Wait," he said, as she pulled her sweater over her head. She poked her head back through the cashmere, "Yes?"

"Let's so somewhere," he announced excitedly.

"Jesus Christ Puck, we just got back. Where on earth do you want to go?"

"Just trust me on this one, Lo. Put on something and let's go. You're never going to forget this one."

"Okay, fine. What should I wear? Is this like a fancy thing? Like a little black dress thing or a jeans thing?" She didn't know why she bothered to ask. Nothing was fancy when it came to him.

He took a moment to decide. "Put on the thing that's the most you."

She scrunched her nose in confusion. "Most me?"

"Yeah. Like raw, bare you. None of that flashy haute couture stuff you wear for the publicity. Like if there was one defining outfit that makes you, you know, you." She rolled her eyes at his awful French pronunciation, not that he cared that much, because he was sure he made no sense at all. She stripped down to her bare essentials. Of course, they were Victoria's Secret.

"You're a dipshit. I'm a model, but the clothes don't make me, baby," she laughed, but she understood what he was saying, "Okay then." She did not take her time selecting, as if this was a defining moment in her life, because she honestly didn't give a single shit about clothes. She simply pulled on a black body-con dress that she had swiped off the set of a magazine shoot once, because she had simply loved it. And to complete the look, she pulled a red jacket out from the very back of her wardrobe. She sniffed it. It smelled like the lavender satchets she had stuck in the pockets years ago. She slipped it on, and twirled in front of him. Lo and behold, it was Santana Madison nee Lopez, in all her Cheerios glory.

"So what do you think?" she asked.

Naturally, he thought it was perfect, because for him, she'd always be sixteen.

"Where are we going?" she squealed, as they walked down Fifth Avenue, "Are you really taking me shopping?"

"Maybe."

She pouted. He wouldn't tell. When they had crossed the street, he stopped her in front of a fire hydrant and a bagel stand.

"You interrupted me for this?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips, whittling her waist in the process.

"Nope. Close your eyes. The rest is a surprise," he declared.

"You better not be pulling some romantic bullshit on me, Puckerman."

"'Course not."

She obliged nonetheless, and let him lead her to a block more until they stopped. He steadied her balance and jumped in front of her.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now," he said, and she did.

They were standing at 727 5th Avenue, otherwise known at Tiffany and Co.

"Uhm, why are we here?" Santana asked. She wasn't going to lie; she kind of expected the elaborate romantic gestures people saw in cheesy romcoms, but she was relieved there was not going to be any type of public spectacles involving him declaring his love and her looking awkward.

He gestured at the heavy, iconic doors that were under the clock. "Go pick out a ring."

She stared at him. "What?"

He stared back just as confused, because he thought he had made himself perfectly clear. She thought he looked like maybe he read the manual wrong, as if this was something all women wanted. "Go. Pick. Out. A. Ring," he repeated slowly.

And then she finally understood what he meant.

But she still screamed, "What?"

"Come on, Santana. Do this with me. Remember when we were stupid ass kids talking about the future like we had a clue? Well, it's the future now, and just talking about it doesn't count anymore," he started, a sense of urgency taking over his voice. She simply stood on the sidewalk, numb and unaware of how to feel.

"Oh, no, no. You and me would never last." She was sure she would never give in to this crazy phenomenon called love, and she was pretty sure he would never let go. There were things about each of them that the other would never forgive nor forget, but for the sake of their relationship, they had already apologized. That did not mean they were truly forgiving, but that they valued their relationship more than their egos.

"Well, it's lasted this long, hasn't it? Besides, between your fucked-up problems and mine, we're never going to be bored. I can't promise I can take care of you all the time, Santana, but you'd never let me anyways. I have a couple hundred thousand in the bank from the army and stuff, I make pretty good French toast, I'll drop everything and go with you to Paris or Bali or whatever any day of the year," he continued rattling off his selling points. Santana wasn't sure if this was how normal people proposed, but it didn't sound too bad.

"And," he finished, "I've had a vasectomy."

Okay, that was pretty fucking awesome.

She cracked a smile, a secret girlish smile that he had never seen before. "Noah Puckerman, that is the single most romantic thing you have ever said." She thought about it for a while. She didn't know why her mind went to this, but she suddenly recalled Mr. Schuester once telling his students that "Action is character" for when they were writing stories in Spanish or something. Before him, she did nothing. She partied, walked a few runways, photographed catalogues. And now? One could argue she did less, but really, she did more. She took vacations. She visited her mother. She sat around at home with her hair in knots. This was true action, and this was true character.

And for that reason, she walked into his open arms and smashed the side of her face against his chest. His jacket smelled like campfires and cinnamon raisin bagels, and she wondered where the smells had come from. "Are you going to leave me for a younger woman when I'm old and wrinkly?" she teased, her voice muffled. He could feel her cheekbones moving up and down on his torso as she spoke, tickling him.

"Of course I will," he replied nonchalantly. She broke away and swatted him. "But at least I'll feel bad about it."

Good enough for her.

She reached up to kiss him, and they continued to go at it until Santana pulled away. Something told her that Tiffany probably didn't appreciate two twenty-something losers dressed like teenagers making out in front of their store. What would Audrey Hepburn say, for shame?

"Now come on, unless you want me to pick out the ring, Holly Golightly" he said, walking off into the store without her.

"Now hold on, who said anything about that? I get to pick out the bling!" she yelled after him. It was only an hour later, with a 5 carat sparkling rock on her finger, that she realized she had never officially said "yes," but she didn't need to, because her actions had always spoken louder than words. And besides, if he had wanted a different answer, he would have asked a different girl.

She had to admit.

Best. Proposal. Ever.

Well, as far as "romantic bullshit" went.

* * *

_Tyra Banks: Everybody, let's welcome supermodel and Victoria's Secret Angel Santana Madison to the show! We're going to get down and dirty and she's got some big secrets to reveal!_

_Santana Madison: Thanks for having me, Tyra. Glad to be here._

_TB: So what exactly is the "Invincible" tour that is happening this month?_

_SM: Well, one in two American women are wearing the wrong sized bra, so this month, _

_Victoria's Secret will be touring the country doing free fittings, giving out free stuff, you _

_know, the whole shebang._

_TB: Oh, wow! How nice! And will you be joining them?_

_SM: No, not me, but my fellow Angels Coral Truax and Katya Kazmanich will be._

_TB: Okay, okay. Ss it true that you and Victoria's Secret will be parting ways after this season? I know everybody wants to know this._

_SM: Yes, it's true. I will be hanging up my wings after five years. *audience groans*_

_TB: Can you explain that a little bit? Was it a mutual decision?_

_SM: Yeah, it was. I mean, five years is a long time to be with one thing, and it felt like it was the right time for everybody. I'm not really what they're looking for anymore, and I can't give them the same dedication I have been doing for the last five years. But I leave with the best five years of my career life all because of Victoria's Secret._

_TB: Good. Now Santana, you've been pegged in the media as this ice queen with a reputation for hating your job and looking pissed off all the time. Truth or just the natural model bitch face?_

_SM: *laughs* A little of both, not gonna lie. I love modeling, it's great, it's gotten me where I've gotten today, but I only see it as a vehicle for my life. You know? If you had asked me this a year ago, I would have said I hated my job, because I was obsessed with my career and miserable. But now I'm okay._

_TB: What changed?_

_SM: Other things have happened in my life that make everything okay now. I've realized that it's okay to have a not-so great thing in your life, as long as there are other good things to balance it out too. Like, as long as modeling isn't my only life, I'm good._

_TB: And would this changing thing in your life happen to be this very attractive man right here? *displays a photo on the screen behind her*_

_SM: *laughs* Yeah, I guess. Oh my god, that's such a bad shot of him. I'm never going to hear the end of it. Yeah, that's him._

_TB: I bet he loves your job._

_SM: Oh, yeah. Good thing he's not the jealous type. That's really more my thing._

_TB: Ooh, girl. Are you ever going to tell us his name or are we going to keep playing this cryptic game of pronouns?_

_SM: Pronouns. _

_TB: Okay then. I respect that. What about you, audience? *audience cheers* And is that an engagement ring on your finger?_

_SM: *smiles and shows her hand to Tyra* _

_TB: Wow, that is stunning!_

_SM: Thanks._

_TB: How long have you two been together?_

_SM: Maybe 13 years or so, on and off? We've only been engaged like two months though.  
_

_TB: Wow! Were you high school sweethearts?_

_SM: Hardly. But I was head cheerleader and he was a football player._

_TB: Not the quarterback?_

_SM: No, no. That's a different story._

_TB: What's the secret to a long relationship like that? Do tell._

_SM: Well, I'm really not the person to ask about relationships, but…I guess, just find someone you can stand. Screw the head over heels in love, make your knees go weak love. That doesn't last. This does. Oh, and really, really, really good sex. That should be the thing to make your knees go weak, actually._

_TB: *laughs* So he doesn't make your knees go weak?_

_SM: Actually, he doesn't. Not in the slightest bit. What's so great about him is that, he doesn't make me weak, when everything else in my life does. He makes me strong. _

_TB: Oh, that's adorable. But you do have things in common and stuff?_

_SM: I think for a relationship to really work, I think you need to want and not want the same things._

_TB: And that's the case with you?  
_

_SM: Definitely. I mean, we both like Egyptian cotton sheets, music, yada yada yada. No, I mean we both like living on a whim, doing impulsive crazy things to keep life interesting. We're definitely not the settle down type of couple.  
_

_TB: I see. When's the wedding? Have you got a theme and everything?_

_SM: Absolutely not. I've never been the white wedding kind of girl. I mean, who knows if we're even going to get married?_

_TB: What? You're engaged! That means you're getting married!_

_SM: Oh, no, no. Being engaged for commitment-phobes like us is kind of enough already. If we get married, it's not going to be a big deal. It'll probably be just for our moms or something. *laughs* And if we don't, whatever. Being engaged is kind of just a public proclamation that you're seeing someone monogamously. _

_TB: But you will eventually get married?_

_SM: Who knows? I mean, I've already got the ring. What else do I need?_

_TB: True, true. And kids? Have you seen Sasha Prince's new baby boy?_

_SM: Yes, I sent her some flowers. But kids are not for us._

_TB: That will change, by the time you get older._

_SM: No, it really won't._

_TB: Well, alrighty then. Let's move on, we have a lot of stuff to get to. _

_SM: Great. You know, Tyra, I hope you realize how special you are. I never talk about my relationships to anybody._

_TB: That's right! Only here on Tyra! Santana, how to respond to the recent People Magazine expose about you? Here's a quote from your high school friend Lucy Hudson, "Santana Madison is a complete crock, and this will knock her little halo right off."_

_SM: *pauses* I really don't have anything to say. Some of the things in that article are true, and others aren't. But I'm not going to concern myself with Quinn, sorry, I mean Lucy Hudson. All I have to say is that I have just as much dirt about her, but you're never going to see me going around and spreading it._

_TB: Well, that's nice. _

_SM: That might be a first for me._

_TB: Okay, well, we're almost out of time, so let's finish up really quick. So what are you going to do after this season? Are you retiring? Taking a break?  
_

_SM: I feel like at this point in my career, I can afford to take a few weeks off for break, which is probably what I'll do. Doctor's orders actually._

_TB: Oh dear. Are you all right?_

_SM: Oh yeah, it's fine. I've just been having some back pain lately. Carrying these puppies around is finally catching up to me._

_TB: *laughs* Well, take it easy. You could always get them removed._

_SM: Maybe. I guess since I'm not an Angel anymore, that would be a possibility.  
_

_TB: Right! So you're not retiring?  
_

_SM: No freaking way. All my plans are kind of up in the air right now. I'm going to be the new face of Missoni's fall collection for sure though, and then after that, I think I'd like to do a USO tour, maybe. My fiancee's already promised me he's not doing any more tours, because he used to be in the military, but I know he misses it. So that would be something for the both of us. __Sing for the troops or something?_  


_TB: Sing?_

_SM: Oh yes, there's a lot people don't know about me. And yeah, I may not be utterly in love with my job, but I'm going to keep doing it until they kick me out. You can't get rid of this girl that easy!_

* * *

He turned off the television, proud of how open Santana was, speaking to a complete stranger like Tyra Banks. Santana had been eloquent, sophisticated, and classy, proof that she indeed belonged in this glamorous and tumultuous world that he had always known she could survive in.

He put his feet up on the coffee table, popped open a beer, and waited for his lover to come home.

**A final question for you all: Was this a love story? **

**How do you define love? Or maybe lust? Like even? Was it **_**only**_** a love story? Or maybe something more? Would the story have basically reached the same conclusions and had the same central themes without the love? Does love have to do with anything at all! (How's that for a loaded question? Got your mind spinning yet?)**

**And fun little bonus ones: 1)Why do you think I named the bra the Invincible? 2) Remember when I said Santana liked Audrey Hepburn? Way back when? For the Breakfast at Tiffany's fans (book and movie), what are some parallels between Santana and Holly? Because there are quite a few!  
**

**So? What did you think? Drop a line, for old time's sake! Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year. Keep on the lookout for a story here and there (I just can't stay away). And don't forget me, send me a message whenever you feel like it! **

**Much love always, Emily.**


End file.
